


Your Ass as a Hat, For All Eternity

by hollycomb



Category: South Park
Genre: Airplane Sex, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hiking Porn, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Nature, New Year's Eve, Nipples, Oral Fixation, Outdoor Sex, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2104896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Stan kissed Kyle for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleepover

**Author's Note:**

> These are the first five South Park fics I ever wrote (more or less). They're a little embarrassing, but I feel I should archive them, and since they all feature a version of Stan and Kyle's first kiss, they fit neatly (sort of) into this five part collection of beginnings. Please enjoy this tour through my early ideas about what should be going on in South Park fanfiction (and notice that it begins with heavy use of nipples).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Kyle are sixteen years old, and sometimes they still sleep in the same bed.

Everyone says they're gay for still spending the night at each other's houses even though they're sophomores in high school, but everyone says they're gay anyway, and Stan is willing to risk his reputation for the comfort of sleeping not only in the same room but in the same bed with Kyle. They've done it for as long as they can remember, and as far as Stan knows, their parents might have put them in the same crib as infants. That's how natural it feels to look across the pillow and see Kyle, and one of Stan's earliest memories is of their parents separating them as toddlers because he'd pushed his hand up under Kyle's shirt while they were sleeping. Stan's mother had calmly tried to explain that "friends don't touch each other like that" while his father had a shit fit, and Kyle's mother undid the efforts of Stan's parents when she ranted later that it was "perfectly natural."  
  
Even at sixteen, a lot of things that most guys their age would never consider doing with a friend feel perfectly natural for the two of them. They just won't let themselves do any of these things until the middle of the night, when they're both half-asleep, warm under piles of blankets while snow falls outside. Stan pretends not to look forward to it as much as he does, but when Kyle comes home with him on a Friday after school, he counts the minutes through dinner and TV and video games until they finally shuck their jeans off and climb into his bed, Stan complaining about it for good measure.  
  
"Can't you even bring your own pillow?" he says as they settle in, Kyle still wearing his hat and a green sweater with overly long sleeves that makes his eyes look brighter than usual. And they're usually pretty bright.  
  
"Shut up, dude," Kyle says, rubbing his face into Stan's pillow, getting comfortable. It's almost two o'clock in the morning, the whole house silent around them, snow coming down hard outside. Stan sighs with what he hopes sounds like annoyance as he reaches over Kyle to turn off the light. It's actually contentment, and his heart is beating hard as he worms down under the blankets and claims his half of the pillow. Kyle has his eyes closed and seems close to sleep already, lying on his side with his shoulder hunched up toward his cheek. He's turned toward Stan, who smiles to himself at the sight. During the day, Kyle is usually stressed to the point of grinding his teeth out, whether it's about school or the very existence of Eric Cartman, and it's nice to see him calm like this, relaxed after a long night of bonding, just the two of them.  
  
"Night," Stan says, testing to see if Kyle is still conscious.  
  
"'Ngh," Kyle murmurs, and Stan laughs. He shifts his bare legs forward under the blankets until they're touching Kyle's, and Kyle responds like always, pushing his knees against Stan's and resting one bony ankle on top of his. It feels as good as it always has, hiding away from the world with his best friend, the blankets pulled up to their chins, and Stan has a goofy smile stretched across his face as he drifts off to sleep.  
  
Stan wakes up an hour later feeling overly warm, and he laughs to himself when he sees why. Kyle has Stan's thumb in his mouth and is sucking on it while he sleeps, his hand curled around Stan's fist as he holds it to his mouth. When they were six years old, Kyle's parents waged war on his thumb-sucking habit by putting some terrible-tasting liquid on his thumbs so that he'd gag if he stuck them in his mouth. Kyle was miserable, and Stan hated seeing him suffer, so one day while they were watching TV he reached over and stuck his thumb in Kyle's mouth. Kyle had sighed like a man dying of thirst who had just found water, and he held Stan's hand in place, his eyelids lowering as he sucked, both of them staring at the TV. They knew it had to be a secret or Stan would get the evil liquid put on his thumbs, too, so most of the time they did it in bed during their sleepovers, waiting until their parents had tucked them in and left them alone. Eventually it helped Stan sleep, too, having Kyle's mouth wrapped around his thumb and listening to the little noises Kyle made while he sucked, contented moans and sighs. They haven't done it in awhile, because even by their standards it's totally gay, and they try to be more careful about their perceived gayness these days, even when they're alone.  
  
Stan feels fully awake now, and he stares, watching Kyle suck his thumb, mesmerized. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this, the way Kyle's lips circle his thumb, the soft, wet sound of his sucking, and his death grip on Stan's hand, like he won't let anyone take it away. Stan grins and tries to pull his hand free, not really wanting to, just for Kyle's reaction. Kyle's eyebrows knit with distress and he moans, his fingers tightening around Stan's hand as he scoots forward and sucks even harder. Stan laughs, his skin tingling as he realizes he can feel Kyle's tongue, and that his mouth is really warm, and so wet, stuff he never really thought about before when they did this. He starts to get hard under the blankets.  
  
He's going to ignore it, going to try to to get back to sleep, but then Kyle reaches up under his sweater and begins to paw at his own chest. Stan knows what he's looking for. When they were little they played a lot of weird games that would put most kids' versions of "doctor" to shame, and one of them was the "baby game," which also stemmed from Kyle's oral fixation. Apparently his mother had breast-fed him until he was almost three years old, and it kind of fucked him up. He was so wistful about it that he invented the "baby game," which was when he was the baby and Stan held him in his lap, lifted up his shirt and let Kyle suck on his nipples with his eyes closed. Even then Stan knew it was really weird, but it felt good, and he would sometimes trade places with Kyle and suck. It was peaceful, being held and petted and called a baby when they were supposed to act like big boys around everyone else. That was around the time when they began to trust each other even more than they trusted their parents.  
  
Kyle finds his nipple under his sweater and sighs with satisfaction as he rolls it between his fingers, his mouth growing even wetter around Stan's thumb. Stan moans under his breath, his cock aching in his boxers. He wonders if Kyle would wake up if he sucked on his nipple. He reaches over with the hand Kyle is not sucking on and tucks a soft red curl behind his ear.  
  
"Kyle," he whispers. "Hey. Dude, wake up."  
  
Kyle's eyes open slowly, but he's not fully awake, because he's still sucking on Stan's thumb and pinching his nipple, two things that he would be way too embarrassed to do if he was conscious.  
  
"Take your sweater off, man," Stan says. "I want to play the baby game."  
  
Kyle nods drowsily and tries to get his sweater off while still sucking Stan's thumb. Stan laughs and pulls his thumb free, ignoring Kyle's moan of complaint. He offers Kyle his thumb again once Kyle's sweater is off, and scoots down to suck one of Kyle's nipples into his mouth. Kyle groans, his nipple already red and sensitive from his pinching.  
  
"Shh," Stan says. "You want to get caught?" He gives Kyle's nipple a little bite, and Kyle gasps, Stan's thumb sliding from his lips.  
  
"Yeah," he says softly. "I mean – no. Don't want to get caught. Stan, mhmm. Hah – yeah – how come we don't do this anymore?"  
  
Stan laughs around Kyle's nipple and then moves to the other one, turning Kyle on his back. Kyle's skinny chest is heaving already, and his hands are in Stan's hair.  
  
"'Cause it's totally gay," Stan says, twisting Kyle's left nipple between his thumb and forefinger while he licks at the right one.  
  
"Is not," Kyle murmurs irritably. He arches and gasps when Stan pulls his nipple between his teeth.  
  
"I've got a boner right now, dude," Stan says, rubbing the evidence against Kyle's leg. Kyle giggles stupidly, his eyes still closed.  
  
"Me, too."  
  
"That's kinda gay."  
  
"Whatever," Kyle says, mumbling. "Feels so good." He reaches up under Stan's shirt and rubs his chest until he finds Stan's left nipple. Stan gasps when he pinches it, and Kyle grins. Stan wants to kiss him, which hurts a little. It's something he's been wanting for awhile.  
  
"Are you awake now?" Stan asks, sitting up on his elbow, still toying with one of Kyle's nipples with the tip of one finger. Kyle shrugs.  
  
"Mostly."  
  
"You were sucking my thumb, you know."  
  
Kyle laughs. "Sorry," he says. "I'm retarded."  
  
"No, you're not. I don't care if you do it. It feels – kinda good. In a weird way."  
  
Kyle raises his eyebrows. "Yeah?" He reaches down between Stan's legs and brushes his hand over his tented erection. Stan gasps and flushes, his hips bucking. He's not sure if he's trying to get closer or move away. Kyle's hand flops against his chest. He looks really cute in the moonlight through the window, his hat slightly askew, the little freckles across his nose just barely visible.  
  
"I could suck something else, if you want me to," Kyle says. A blush rises on his cheeks, taking him from cute to irresistibly adorable. Stan has always liked the way Kyle looks, and he's only improved with age.  
  
"Are you fucking serious, dude?" Stan asks. He's never had his cock sucked. He got to second base with Wendy back in middle school, but didn't really find boobs to be all they were cracked up to be and hasn't made much of an effort with girls since.  
  
"Yeah, I'm serious," Kyle says. "I mean, why not? We're pretty fucked up already. It's like, we might as well, you know?" He's still blushing hard.  
  
"Oh – okay," Stan says, his heart slamming in his chest. He doesn't want to mess things up with Kyle; it's why he's never tried to kiss him, even when Kyle smiles so hard that Stan feels like he'll die if he can't press their lips together. "Um. Should I just – pull my boxers down, or –"  
  
"Here, stupid," Kyle says. He gets up onto his knees and pushes Stan down onto his back, pinning his shoulders. Stan stares up at him, trying not to pant his breaths out too obviously. His cock is so full it hurts. Kyle looks very serious as he stares down at him, almost grave. Stan wants to ask _Do you think I'm cute?_ , but that would be really gay.  
  
"Dude," he says instead, breathless as he watches Kyle move down his body and tug on the waistband of his boxer shorts. He looks up at Stan as if to ask if it's really okay, looking very young for a moment, and Stan nods.  
  
"God, you are hard," Kyle mutters when he sees Stan's cock standing up between his legs, arching toward his belly. Stan wants to spread his thighs wider, but they're trapped by his boxers, and he whines a little when Kyle lowers his head, his breath on the head of Stan's leaking dick.  
  
"Fuck, man," Stan whispers when Kyle's tongue darts out to lap up some precome. "Yeah."  
  
"I kind of can't believe we haven't done this before," Kyle says, giving Stan a devious grin before he swallows down his cock.  
  
"Ah!" Stan yelps, his head falling back and his back arching as Kyle's mouth slides around him. He knew it would feel good, a hot, wet mouth on his dick, but he can't believe it's _this_ good, the slow slide of Kyle's mouth as his head begins to bob, his tongue like silk on the underside, swollen lips sliding around the shaft. Stan is shaking as he watches, and he pushes Kyle's hat off so he can thread his fingers into his hair.  
  
"Kyle, fuck, yeah," Stan pants out, trying to hold back the urge to slam his hips up and fuck Kyle's mouth. He can't believe how deep Kyle is taking him, and how calm he seems as he sucks, like it's just Stan's thumb, not his about-to-explode cock.  
  
"You've – you've done this before?" Stan asks in disbelief, because there's no way Kyle should be this good at sucking dick. Kyle sniffs out a laugh and pulls off to grin up at Stan, his bottom lip still on the tip of his cock.  
  
"Yeah," he says, trying to seem all cool about it, but his face is really red. Stan's eyebrows shoot up.  
  
" _What_? When? With who?"  
  
Kyle shrugs. "With Kenny sometimes." He rubs at Stan's balls. "You gonna grill me about it, or should I continue?"  
  
"Ah – just – continue." Stan was close to coming, but it seems a long way off now that he's got Kyle sucking Kenny's dick on his mind. What the fuck does that mean? Is Kyle gay for real? Is _Kenny_? Kyle does something with his tongue that makes Stan need to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from screaming, and he's back to being about to come.  
  
"Fucking – yeah – gonna come," he says, wanting Kyle to have fair warning. Kyle sucks harder, his head bobbing faster, and Stan whines, his head falling back onto the pillow. He nods crazily, as if Kyle needs encouragement at this point, and his fingers tighten in Kyle's curls when he comes. He bites down hard on his knuckles, his hips pumping, seeing stars behind his pinched-shut eyes. Kyle swallows it all like a pro.  
  
Stan feels out of it when he opens his eyes, totally different from when he comes in his own hand. Kyle crawls up to grin at him, licking his lips.  
  
"What does it taste like?" Stan asks, because he wants to kiss Kyle, so bad.  
  
"Your voice sounds deeper," Kyle says, leaning down, his face hovering over Stan's. "It's like I just made a man out of you or something."  
  
"Shut up," Stan mutters, and he sighs with relief when Kyle finally presses his lips to his. It's not exactly the sweet kiss of his fantasies, tinged with the taste of Stan's come, but it's still so good, Kyle's mouth hot and his lips swollen, salty. Stan opens his lips so Kyle can slide the tip of his tongue against Stan's, and they both moan at that point of contact, sparks trailing down Stan's spine. When Kyle pulls back it's like his big, green eyes are the only thing in the world, and Stan feels blown apart, scared of how much this means to him.  
  
"What the fuck," Stan says softly. "You and Kenny?"  
  
Kyle rolls his eyes. "He told me he'd teach me how to give head. That's all."  
  
"Bullshit." Stan rolls onto his side, the tingling post-orgasm calm fading and the hurt crashing in. Kyle sighs and rests his chin on Stan's shoulder, lying behind him. He bumps his erection against Stan's ass.  
  
"He usually returns the favor," Kyle says.  
  
"Great. So why don't you head over to that fucking shanty town Kenny lives in and crawl into his bed, if he even has one."  
  
"Stanley," Kyle says, nosing at Stan's neck, pressing little kisses there that make Stan's eyes water. "Don't be a bitch. I only let him teach me because I wanted to do it right when you finally let me."  
  
"Yeah, right," Stan mutters, but he tilts his head to give Kyle better access to his neck, where his kisses are growing wetter, rougher. It feels good, the drag of Kyle's teeth across his pulse.  
  
"Kenny's a dick," Kyle says. "I won't touch him anymore if – if you don't want me to."  
  
"What, like I'm your jealous boyfriend or something?" Stan says with a scoff. He reaches back to cup Kyle's head in his hand and sighs when Kyle scoots closer, his erection pressed to the small of Stan's back.  
  
"Yeah, something like that," Kyle says. His voice is soft. Stan rolls onto his back and frowns. Kyle's eyes are even softer, sad-looking.  
  
"Kiss me, okay?" Stan says, his chest feeling ripped up. Kyle nods and closes his mouth over Stan's, licking between his lips in slow little drags of his tongue, making Stan feel almost bodiless with pleasure, like he's evaporated into nothing but this, Kyle's warm mouth, and his hand wrapped possessively around Stan's hip.  
  
"Teach me, then," Stan whispers into Kyle's mouth. Their eyes flutter open, lashes tangling together. Stan wants to climb into Kyle's eyes and live there for awhile. He can read every little thought Kyle is having, like always: he's feeling guilty about the Kenny thing, more than he'll ever let on, and scared that what's happening will leave him hurt, and hopeful that it won't, wanting to trust Stan with this, too, with everything.  
  
"Okay," Kyle says. He sits back and fishes around until he finds his hat, pulling it back on and tucking his curls under it. Stan grins.  
  
"You're such a bitch about your hair," he says. Kyle snorts and flops down onto his back, spreading his legs.  
  
"Whatever, smart ass," he says, grinning. "Suck my dick."  
  
"'Kay." Stan is grinning, too, but he's nervous. He gets up on his knees and sits between Kyle's legs.  
  
"Step one," Kyle says. "Remove underwear."  
  
"Ha." Stan is nervous about this, actually, his hands shaking as he slides his fingers under the waistband of Kyle's boxer briefs. He gives Kyle an anxious look, and Kyle grins, looking fucking perfect with his nipples red and worked-on, his mouth all debauched, that omnipresent hat snug over his ears. Stan slides Kyle's underwear off, trying not to stare at his cock, which is a weird thing to try not to do, considering he's about to put it in his mouth.  
  
"Man, you're so freaked out," Kyle says, his thighs twitching like he wants to cover himself. "You don't have to, you know."  
  
"I know." Stan gives him a look, frowning with determination. "I want to. Just – tell me what to do."  
  
"Just, um. Lick the tip."  
  
Stan takes a deep breath and leans down to do that, intrigued by the strong smell of _Kyle_ between his legs, like the rest of his skin only amplified. Stan laps at him a few times, and they both groan.  
  
"Yeah," Kyle says softly. "Good, that's good."  
  
Stan takes a full inventory of Kyle's dick with the tip of his tongue, licking under the rim of the fat head, through the leaking slit, up and down the shaft. Kyle curses and moans, and Stan laughs when he looks up and sees that Kyle has the corner of a blanket in his mouth.  
  
"Damn," Stan says, pushing Kyle's thighs apart more widely. "You look hot like this."  
  
Kyle smirks, the blanket still between his teeth. Stan wants to take a picture, but he's pretty sure he's going to remember this moment forever anyway.  
  
"You look pretty hot with your mouth on my cock," Kyle says.  
  
"Yeah?" Stan opens wide and takes Kyle into his mouth, his own cock twitching when he hears Kyle's breath start to come in harsh pants.  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Kyle whispers. "Fucking – good, Stan, that's good."  
  
Stan expected to be able to fit more of Kyle into his mouth, but it's not as easy as Kyle made it look. He wraps his hand around the base and uses his hand to jerk what he can't fit in his mouth. Kyle whines and twitches as Stan closes his eyes and savors the taste of him. He didn't even know he wanted this, but it's fucking awesome, making Kyle feel this good.  
  
"Guh – gonna come," Kyle says, grabbing at Stan's ear. Stan is afraid to try and swallow, so he pulls off, and that's when Kyle goes off, right in his face.  
  
"Fuck," Stan says, laughing and wiping at his cheek while Kyle trembles beneath him, pumping out more come, hitting Stan's t-shirt now. Stan peels the shirt off and throws it on the floor, crawling up to lie beside Kyle on the pillow again.  
  
"Jesus, man," Kyle says in a huff, turning toward him. "Unf. That was. Yeah. Here, you missed a spot." He reaches up and wipes some of his come from Stan's cheek. Kyle is still breathing hard, his hand shaking a little as it settles over Stan's hip. The chill of the room is beginning to settle over them again, and Stan reaches down to yank the blankets up over them.  
  
Once they're covered up, Kyle squirms closer. Stan kisses him, wrapping his arms around him, then a leg, Kyle's thigh sliding up between Stan's legs, until it's resting against Stan's soft cock. They both shiver at the feeling, then laugh at each other.  
  
"Want to suck my thumb again?" Stan asks, teasing, but he's kind of serious. Whatever Kyle needs, Stan is going to give it to him, always. Kyle smirks and licks at the corner of Stan's mouth.  
  
"Nah," he says. "Thanks, though."  
  
"Anytime." Stan presses a chaste little kiss over Kyle's lips, but it just gets them going again, sighing into each other's mouths as they rub their tongues together.  
  
"I mean it," Kyle says, pulling back to give Stan a devastating look. "Thanks – thank you. I don't know how I would, like, live without you. You make me feel – like I belong somewhere. You know?"  
  
"Yeah," Stan says. He squeezes Kyle closer, pulling him to his chest, and Kyle closes his eyes, rubbing his nose on Stan's jaw, hiding his face against his neck. "I know. Me too."  
  
Kyle falls asleep first, and Stan plays with the curls that have escaped below the back of his hat. This doesn't feel as new as it should, maybe because they've shared the bed so many times before, even if they weren't nakedly entwined beneath the blankets with the taste of each other's come on their lips. He moans happily and wraps around Kyle as tightly as he can, wanting to pull him all the way into his chest, to lose the ability to distinguish his body from Kyle's.  
  
"Dude," Kyle says, reaching down to pinch Stan's ass. "My ribs. Ouch."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"S'okay." Kyle kisses his collarbone, and Stan grins.  
  
In the morning, they wake up slow, kissing and making fun of each other for having bad breath. At the breakfast table, Stan sneaks looks at Kyle over his bowl of Frosted Flakes, and when Kyle catches him looking he smiles. Stan can hardly believe it's real, here in the light of day. He's in love with his best friend, and it feels so good. It's going to be a great Saturday, tromping around town with their friends, but he's already looking forward to the end of the day, when he can climb back into bed and pull Kyle into his arms, where he belongs.


	2. Pidgin Sign Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're not gay, they just have a secret best friends language that involves touching each other a lot.

Kyle is pretty sure that it's unintentional. When Stan wants things he goes after them without apologizing, so Kyle must not be something that Stan wants, because if their secret language was ever supposed to lead somewhere it has taken a much too long and meandering course to be attributed to anything that Stan is actually trying to accomplish. Still, Kyle goes over to Stan's house every Friday night and sleeps in the bed that they're too big to share now. Stan is almost six feet tall this year, their sixteenth, and Kyle is only two inches shorter. They still measure each other with pencil marks on Stan's bedroom door frame.  
  
"What the hell is this?" Kyle asks as he's making his usual rounds in Stan's room. Stan turns from his computer to see Kyle holding up the novel that he found on Stan's desk: _To the Lighthouse_ by Virginia Woolf.  
  
"Wendy," Stan says. "She wants me to read it. She says it will help me understand her."  
  
Kyle snorts and tosses the book down. "You going to?" he asks.  
  
"I dunno. I tried to start it last night. It's really boring. Come look at this email from Kenny."  
  
The email is a series of pictures of what appears to be a hot girl: blond hair loose on her shoulders, Kenny's hand squeezing her thigh, the curve of her back with her dress hiked up to her shoulders. The last picture reveals what Kyle had already guessed: the girl is actually Butters, asleep in Kenny's bed with his wig askew and his fingers in his mouth, the words _my girlfriend is hotter than yours fyi_ typed under the last picture.  
  
"Why does he send me these things?" Stan asks.  
  
"'Cause he's a freak," Kyle says.  
  
"No, I think he seriously thinks Butters is hotter than Wendy," Stan says. "Do you think he shaves his legs?" Stan asks, scrolling back up to the second picture.  
  
"Butters? Sick, dude, I don't know."  
  
"Wendy stopped shaving," Stan says. "I feel like an asshole for complaining, because she's right, it's not fair, she shouldn't have to, but. I don't know."  
  
"You don't like hairy legs?" Kyle sits down on the floor beside Stan's desk chair, hoping that it's late enough at night that they can start speaking their no-words language. He thinks of shaving his legs for Stan, how Stan would stroke his hands over his calves and moan at how smooth they felt. Kyle doesn't like the idea of doing it, but he would if Stan wanted him to. He knows he's a freak, like Kenny, like Butters, and he wonders if Stan is, too. Stan has a girlfriend, but he's still looking at the pictures of Butters, cocking his head a little, squinting with curiosity or confusion, or both.  
  
"I can live with hairy legs," Stan says. Still looking at the computer screen, he reaches over to slide his fingers into Kyle's hair, coaxing him closer. Kyle bites down on his grin and rests his head on Stan's thigh, his eyes sliding shut as Stan's fingers scratch through his hair. This is a thing that they do, it's normal for them, never discussed but obviously understood as something they both want. Or need. Kyle needs this, thinks about it all week long. He reaches up into the cuff of Stan's jeans and wraps his hand around Stan's ankle.  
  
"She's just going to break up with you again like she always does," Kyle says.  
  
"Sometimes it's me who breaks up with her," Stan says, defensive, and Kyle laughs. He wants to climb up into Stan's lap, straddle his hips and go to sleep with his head on Stan's shoulder, but that's something they haven't done yet. The progression of their touches is very delicate, very slow. Stan has only just begun to do this with Kyle's hair in the past year. It feels so good, waves of goosebumps prickling across the back of Kyle's neck, his cock getting hard and his whole body arching into the touch as Stan's fingers work their way across his scalp. It was worth the wait.  
  
"Should I reply?" Stan asks. He laughs. "Should I take pictures of you?"  
  
He tugs on Kyle's hair when he asks the question, and Kyle grunts, afraid to look up, to show Stan his blush. It's the closest Stan has ever come to acknowledging their weirdness, but Kyle isn't ready to talk about it. He just moves his thumb over the bump of Stan's ankle bone, and grins when he feels Stan shiver.  
  
"Send him pictures of Wendy," Kyle says.  
  
"No way, dude."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I don't have any, for one thing. Not pictures like this, anyway. But even if I did. It seems mean."  
  
"It's not mean," Kyle says, because he thinks Kenny loves Butters and is proud of him. People just have different ways of showing it. He presses his face more firmly to Stan's thigh, closing his eyes against the denim.  
  
"Wendy wouldn't like it," Stan says. "I mean. Would you? If someone did something like that to you?"  
  
"I guess not," Kyle says, though it's not that simple. He envies Butters for having someone who wants to take pictures of him while he sleeps. It's weird, yeah, but that's them. Kenny and Butters have their own brand of weirdness. Kyle can appreciate that.  
  
Stan starts rubbing his fingers through Kyle's hair again, his other hand on his mouse as he scrolls through some website, and Kyle pretends to be asleep. He could sleep like this, normally, but his heart is still beating fast after what Stan said. Is he the Butters to Stan's Kenny? If Stan does think of him that way, he's not sure if he should feel encouraged or crushed. But here he is, thinking about Stan's hands moving over his shaved legs, and he can't really look down on Butters for whatever it is he does for Kenny.  
  
"Here we go," Stan says when Kyle has gotten closer to something resembling actual sleep, a puddle of drool forming on Stan's jeans. Kyle lets his body stay heavy while Stan hoists him up and drags him over to the bed, moaning with complaint at being moved. He expects to get dumped onto the bed, but Stan lowers him carefully, and kneels down to untie Kyle's sneakers when Kyle is stretched out on his back, blinking up at the ceiling. There's a kind of soft hum in the room, from Stan's computer and the central heat that blows warm air down onto them. Outside, it's just beginning to get really cold, the air already smelling like the snow that won't leave for months once it arrives.  
  
When Stan has removed his shoes, Kyle crawls up toward the pillow and hugs it against him, watching through half-closed eyes as Stan pulls off his jeans. This is Kyle's favorite part of Friday night: not even the moment that Stan actually gets into the bed, but the quiet before he does, the knowing that he will.  
  
Kyle squirms out of his jeans and tucks his legs under the blankets, turning his back on the sound of Stan brushing his teeth in the attached bathroom. His heart rate picks up when he hears the water turning off, then the light switch. It's dark in the room as Stan makes his way over to slide into the bed beside him, and Kyle cracks his eyes open, unable to stop himself from smiling when Stan's head comes to rest beside his on the pillow. Kyle moves his knees forward under the blankets, cautious until he feels the press of Stan's. Their legs tangle together like always, Stan clamping his thighs around Kyle's knee. It's comforting, though it's also a tease, because Kyle wants so badly to scoot forward until Stan's arms close around him. He's never tried it; Stan always initiates the touches, not him.  
  
"Do you think they fuck?" Stan asks, almost whispering the question, like sex is still a mysterious thing that they're afraid to talk about.  
  
"Dude, it's Kenny," Kyle says with a snort. "If he can get Butters to let him take pictures of him in drag, I'm pretty sure he's talked him into fucking by now."  
  
"Yeah, but like -- the whole thing?" Stan says. "Like, in the butt? You really think?"  
  
"Stranger things have happened in South Park," Kyle says, not sure why Stan finds the idea of Kenny giving it to Butters so hard to believe. Kyle has never had a hard time imagining it.  
  
"It's just -- so -- hardcore, isn't it?" Stan says. He reaches over and hooks his finger around the collar of Kyle's t-shirt, tugging on it a little. It's a regular thing, one of the first ways they ever touched each other, and Kyle quickly reciprocates, curling his finger around Stan's collar. He can feel Stan's pulse pumping against the back of his finger, and it's faster than Kyle would have guessed.  
  
"As hardcore as regular sex, I guess," Kyle says. "I mean. Like the kind of shit you do with Wendy. It's not more hardcore than that just because it's two guys."  
  
Kyle can feel the heat of Stan's blush. He doesn't like to talk about this, and Kyle wishes he hadn't brought it up, because now Stan will release his t-shirt and his leg, roll over and go to sleep.  
  
"We don't," Stan says instead, softly. His finger tightens around Kyle's collar.  
  
"What?"  
  
"We don't, me and Wendy."  
  
"She doesn't want to?" Kyle feels like throwing a party, jumping on the bed, doing gleeful back flips. For so long he's worried that Wendy has been pleasing Stan in the backseat of Stan's car, in the broom closets at their high school, and even in this bed that Stan has shared with Kyle every Friday night since they were six years old.  
  
"It's not her," Stan says, defensive. "She wants to. It's me."  
  
"That kind of sex seems too hardcore for you, too?"  
  
"No. Yeah. I don't know. It seems like it would be -- too -- wet."  
  
Kyle can't hold in his nervous laughter any longer, and he waits for Stan to pummel him for it, but Stan just lies there looking sad, so Kyle moves closer, his whole hand closing around Stan's collar.  
  
"It's supposed to feel good," Kyle says. "The wet part. Like jerking off with lotion. It's better than when you have to do it dry, right?"  
  
"Yeah," Stan says. His breath is coming a little hard, and Kyle's is, too. "But, I don't know. Lotion is one thing. It's not all, like. Weird."  
  
"Have you told Wendy that you think her anatomy is weird?"  
  
"I don't think that," Stan says, glowering. "I think she's hot. I just don't necessarily want to -- I don't know. Investigate further."  
  
"Huh?" Kyle is lost, and queasy with the possible implications of this conversation. He's holding on to Stan's shirt so tightly that he's afraid he'll rip it off of him.  
  
"I think maybe if I did it with a guy first," Stan says. "Then I would realize it wasn't that big of a deal. Then I could do it with her."  
  
"A guy?" Kyle says, snorting. They're trying to act cool, like this conversation isn't remaking the whole world, but their faces are blazing, they're both breathing heavily, and Kyle can feel Stan's legs shaking around his.  
  
"Not any guy," Stan says, and he looks kind of pissed off for a minute, then soft again, wetting his lips with his tongue. "You. It wouldn't be weird if it was with you."  
  
"You want to do a dry run on me before you fuck Wendy?" Kyle says. He hates himself for wanting to give in, and he has to roll onto his stomach to hide the beginnings of his erection. Stan's hand slides away from Kyle's collar and ends up on his shoulder. His palm is hot.  
  
"Not dry," Stan says, smirking. "With lotion."  
  
"Jesus, thanks."  
  
"Well. You don't have to."  
  
"No shit!"  
  
Kyle turns his head away from Stan's on the pillow, trying to seem furious about this, because he should be. He's more heartbroken and curious than angry, and his eyes slide shut when Stan starts rubbing his shoulders.  
  
"If it feels bad, we could stop," Stan says. "Haven't you wondered, too? What it would be like?"  
  
Kyle huffs into the pillow. He's pretty sure that Stan knows he's gay, and he probably knows that Kyle wants him, needs him, loves him. He wouldn't be asking for this if he didn't know that Kyle would say yes.  
  
"Here," Stan says, and he reaches down to pull Kyle's shirt off. Kyle arches, allowing it, his cock pressing against the mattress as he does, giving him a throb of pleasure that he wants to follow down into the dark. A buddy fuck. That's what it would be for Stan. He kneels up over Kyle's back and begins kneading his shoulders properly, Kyle's t-shirt disposed of. This is not unusual, either. Stan is always rubbing Kyle's back after school, and he's so good at it, always using just the right amount of pressure, always finding Kyle's tight places and easing the tension from his muscles until they're loose and humming.  
  
"My thinking is this," Stan says as his thumbs move in circles under Kyle's shoulder blades. "It's such a gross thing, when you think about it objectively, so it must feel really, really good if people are willing to do it."  
  
"So why don't you feel that way about regular sex?" Kyle asks, his voice muffled by the pillow. There's a sizable pool of drool puddling under his parted lips as Stan's hands move lower, down to the small of his back.  
  
"Regular sex doesn't involve asses," Stan says.  
  
"So you're saying you want to try out the sex that sounds grosser first, to make the other kind seem -- less gross?"  
  
"Yeah," Stan says. He sighs, his hands going still on Kyle's back. "I know it sounds dumb."  
  
"It doesn't sound dumb," Kyle says, though it does. His dick is hard, and he's not about to discourage Stan from this ridiculous plan in the state he's in, his hips beginning to twitch against the mattress. He's been scared of trying this, even on his own in bed, but if there's anyone in the world that he trusts not to hurt him, it's Stan. Ironic, because Stan is the one who crushes him on a daily basis, every time Wendy's name comes up. But that's unintentional.  
  
"So," Stan says, and his fingers slide down to the hem of Kyle's boxer shorts. "Can I?"  
  
Kyle lifts his hips in answer, his face still hidden in Stan's pillow, which smells so strongly of Stan's hair that Kyle feels dizzy, ready to agree to anything. He hears Stan take a deep breath, and Kyle holds his as Stan pulls his boxers down slowly, exposing Kyle's ass to the slight chill of the room. Kyle's face is burning, and he's trying to keep his chest from heaving with the force of his breath, his fists closed around the edges of Stan's pillow. Stan stops when he gets Kyle's boxers down to his knees, and Kyle tries not to think of how he must look, the freckles on his ass and the trembling of his shoulders.  
  
"Are you sufficiently grossed out yet?" Kyle asks. He's impressed with the sturdiness of his voice, considering what's happening.  
  
"No," Stan says, and Kyle is going to make another joke, but then Stan's hand comes to rest on Kyle's left ass cheek. His touch is so soft and reverent that Kyle wants to laugh, but he can't, because the awareness that Stan's hand is on his ass has frozen him solid. When Stan's thumb moves to stroke him Kyle has to bite down on his lip to hide his whimper.  
  
"Remember when Bebe said you had a sweet ass?" Stan asks. His voice is steady, too, but his hand is shaking.  
  
"What, when we were kids?" Kyle says with a snort. "Was that when you made me kiss her?"  
  
"I didn't make you. I was just trying to kiss Wendy."  
  
"Yeah? You have a hell of a way of trying to do things with Wendy."  
  
They're both quiet for a moment, and Kyle is sorry he said anything. He lets out a shaky breath when Stan's other hand moves to his ass, not sure if he wants anything more than this, just the heat of Stan's palms covering his exposed skin.  
  
"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Stan asks, a little sharply. Kyle wants to give him a derisive laugh and a _hell no_ , but the only thing he is sure of right now is that he doesn't want this to end yet, so he just spreads his legs apart as widely as his boxers will allow.  
  
"Do it," Kyle says. "Just -- slowly, okay?"  
  
"Duh," Stan says. He gives Kyle's ass a squeeze with both hands, then bounds away, toward the bathroom, presumably for lotion. Kyle lies there feeling unguarded and foolish, half-swallowed words bubbling on the back of his tongue, the kinds of things that could only be voiced along with hysterical tears. He doesn't want to cry, doesn't want to set himself up for heartbreak by taking this seriously, and doesn't want to show Stan his face, because if he looks into Stan's eyes he'll never stop sobbing.  
  
"I got hand lotion and regular lotion," Stan says when he comes back. He's almost panting with excitement, or nervousness. "Which do you think would be better?"  
  
"Why do you even have hand lotion?" Kyle says. If he can just keep making fun of Stan, acting like he's the fucked up one here, he'll be able to cling to some semblance of pride.  
  
"Uh, for my hands?" Stan says.  
  
"You're such a chick," Kyle says. "And yes, I'm aware of the irony of that making that statement while I'm in this position."  
  
"You could roll over," Stan says, kneeling behind him on the bed, between his legs.  
  
"I think it goes in easier if you do it on your stomach," Kyle says. He wonders if Stan is really clueless enough to buy that as the reason Kyle can't face him while they do this. Kyle is afraid of all the things he won't see in Stan's eyes, the things that are being saved up for Wendy. At least this way he can still get off, without complicating things by straining toward Stan for a kiss he won't get.  
  
"'Kay," Stan says, and Kyle hears the cap on the lotion pop off. “I'm going with the hand lotion.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Are you sure –”  
  
“Quit asking me that. It's just my ass, not some – sacred cavern. I know you won't hurt me,” he adds more quietly, though the opposite is true. He knows that Stan will be gentle, considerate, tender, and that it will hurt him more than any reckless pummeling ever could.  
  
“Okay.” Stan lets out his breath, and Kyle flinches when he feels the press of Stan's finger poised over his crack. “I'm gonna – actually do this.”  
  
“It was your idea,” Kyle says, starting to feel like he's the dirty bastard who talked Stan into this. He gasps when Stan parts his ass cheeks with one hand, touching his entrance – God, his fucking _hole_ – with the other.  
  
“What does it feel like?” Stan asks, breathless. He sounds almost jealous. Kyle laughs into the pillow, reeling.  
  
“Good,” he says when he can't come up with a more eloquent response. He's hanging by a thread, strung up on the truth, which is that it does feel good, making his knees inch apart more widely, his back curving so that his ass lifts up off the mattress. It feels like a secret he didn't even know he had. He knew he was gay, but he didn't know how much he could want this, just Stan's finger circling him wetly, Stan's breath heavy as he watches Kyle arch and flex for him.  
  
“Want me to put it in?” Stan asks, a question that would be hilarious if Kyle wasn't so embarrassed for finding it insanely hot. He moans into the pillow, past any attempt to keep from humiliating himself.  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “Your finger,” he clarifies, and Stan laughs.  
  
“That's what I meant.”  
  
“Just – making sure.”  
  
Stan takes another deep breath, like every step he takes to get closer to being inside Kyle amounts to another giant boulder he has to hoist over his head. He's timid, the pad of his finger just teasing at Kyle, so Kyle whines, egging him on, and he shudders when he hears Stan moan, knows what will come next. Stan pushes in, a little too fast, but Kyle just shifts back against him, as eager as he is terrified.  
  
“Fuck,” Stan whispers when he's in up to his knuckle. Kyle whimpers, then quiets when Stan pets his back.  
  
“Want it out?” Stan asks. Kyle feels like he's connected to Stan's heartbeat, like Stan is a USB cable that somebody plugged into him, all information in their previously separate bodies now shared.  
  
“No,” Kyle says. “Leave – leave it in, it's okay. Push it, um. Deeper. Please.”  
  
Stan makes a noise that Kyle can't categorize, except as maybe a small animal that just got stepped on. He hesitates, and Kyle can feel him tremble, so he pushes back, giving him further permission, and Stan lets his breath out as his finger slides in as far as it will go. It feels weird, like a kind of unallowed pressure, but Kyle's body doesn't fight it, just wants more of it, even with his fists so tight around Stan's pillow that his knuckles go pale.  
  
“Should – should I –” Stan stutters, and Kyle actually manages to feel sorry for him.  
  
“Yeah,” Kyle says, making his voice as gruff as he can. “Fuck – fuck me with it. Just – slow.”  
  
“What does it feel like?” Stan asks again, and he doesn't sound jealous now. He sounds like he's afraid to know, so Kyle shoves back onto his finger, because he doesn't want either of them to be as scared as they are. They both groan, Kyle at the feeling of being penetrated deeply, suddenly, and Stan, presumably, at the sight of Kyle's hips snapping back.  
  
“Feels like – like flossing.”  
  
“ _Flossing_?”  
  
“Yeah, like. Like getting into – _ah_. This, this tight place that needs – _ah_! Needs to have something pushed in it.”  
  
“Like a Q-tip in your ear?”  
  
“Kuh-kind of – Stan, _ah_.”  
  
“What? What? Want me to take it out?”  
  
“No – don't – please. Feels good.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“Seriously.”  
  
“Are you – you're hard?”  
  
“Fuh-fuck yeah I am. Are you?” Kyle is terrified that Stan isn't, that he's grossed out, dreaming of Wendy and her softer skin, her sweeter smell.  
  
“Kyle, Jesus,” Stan says. His voice is so broken that Kyle wants to pull away and flip over just so he can hold him, calm him down. “I'm hard, yeah. I'm so fucking hard.”  
  
“Fuck me,” Kyle whines out, shoving back against Stan's finger now, hopelessly open for him. “Please, God, just do it.”  
  
“Ah – okay, are you –”  
  
“Don't ask me if I'm sure!” Kyle meant to sound angry, authoritative, but the words just came out like a plea, shaky and small. “Please, just –”  
  
“Okay, okay.” Stan soothes his hand over the small of Kyle's back as he pulls his finger out, and Kyle can feel the _pop_ when it leaves him. It's enough to make him grit his teeth and rub his face against the pillow, an unbearable emptiness that's too close to relief to make him sure that he wants something bigger and harder inside him. He hears Stan employ the lotion again, hears the _squish_ as he slicks himself. Kyle wants badly to turn over, to gape at Stan's hard cock, at his heaving chest, and at his face, the wreck of his features while he breathes hard like this, but he won't let himself do it. He can't.  
  
“If it hurts,” Stan says, gripping Kyle's hip. “I'll stop.”  
  
“I know,” Kyle says, punching the mattress, a sharp flutter in his chest telling him that he's nowhere near strong enough to hold back his tears. “Quit stalling. Goddammit, just –”  
  
Then the fat tip of Stan's cock is pressed against him, and Kyle's words and breath and coherent thoughts are all gone.  
  
“Kyle,” Stan says, the strain in his voice a naked plea. Kyle thinks that he must be asking for entry, and he tries to relax, taking deep breaths, spreading his legs until he hears the hem of his boxers ripping. Stan's hands are shaking so hard, cupped loosely around Kyle's hips.  
  
“Please,” Kyle says, his voice almost gone, and he doesn't know what he's begging for until Stan pushes him over, onto his back.  
  
As soon as their eyes meet, it's done. There is no more silent, stunted language. Everything they've tried so hard not to say, for so long, is suddenly blaring through the room, the sound of it pouring out into the motionless night, making the whole town tremor. Kyle keeps his face as still as he can while Stan sinks into him, Stan's eyes boring into Kyle's, his hands cruelly soft on Kyle's cheeks. It hurts, bad, rips Kyle in half, but he couldn't tell Stan what this feels like if he asked. He can't feel anything but how deeply Stan is looking into him, how irreversibly he's seeing everything.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” Stan says when the first sob rips out of Kyle, but when he tries to move back, to pull out, Kyle grabs him and pulls him closer, all the way in.  
  
“No, please,” Kyle says, crying, holding him. “Don't – don't stop, please.”  
  
“Kyle – dude,” Stan says, whispering. That _dude_ is probably the softest word he's ever said, like he's telling Kyle that he knows his real, secret name, and that he'll never reveal it to anyone else. “I'll – you're freaking out, it's okay –” He tries to pull out again, and Kyle shakes his head, his arms locked tight around Stan's neck, his legs clamped around his back.  
  
“Don't,” Kyle says, hating how the sobs feel like hiccups already, uncontrollable jerks of his spread-open body. “Don't leave me, please, don't.”  
  
“I –” Stan is stunned for half a second before he catches on, and then he's kissing Kyle's face, stroking Kyle's hair. “I won't, I won't. Okay? You're okay, I'm here, I won't – I'm not going anywhere.”  
  
“Just –” Kyle says, and then he loses it, crying hard. Stan closes tightly around him, a protective shell, and Kyle clings, shrinks and hides beneath him, only realizes that they're still as intimately connected as they can ever hope to be when he feels how tightly he's squeezed around Stan's cock and gasps.  
  
“Want me to pull out?” Stan asks for, what, the ten thousandth time? His eyes are wet, lashes fluttering against Kyle's.  
  
“No,” Kyle says. “I don't want – just stay, I don't, don't want you to stop -- that's not why I'm fuh-fucking crying.”  
  
“Then why? Kyle, please, God. I don't – I hate it when you cry.”  
  
“You do?” This is crushing, because Stan is the only person Kyle has ever allowed himself to cry in front of, even when they were very young.  
  
“I just – never,” Stan says, scoffing, his forehead pressed to Kyle's. Their eyes are locked together so irrevocably that Kyle is afraid that he'll never see anything else again, just the wet, dark blue of Stan's, his vulnerability reflecting Kyle's, making it unavoidable.  
  
“I never want you to be sad because of me,” Stan says, and he's eight years old again, unguarded, the most precious thing Kyle has ever known.  
  
“But I always am,” Kyle says, crying so hard now that he's not sure Stan will even be able to interpret these as actual words. “Because of you.”  
  
“I know,” Stan says, and Kyle opens his mouth to issue an insincere retraction, because he doesn't want to blame Stan for what he's gone through, doesn't want him to feel guilty. Stan swallows the words up with the kiss that Kyle has wanted since they were ten years old, since the first time their legs tangled together under the blankets in Stan's bed. Kyle pushes a stuttering gasp into Stan's mouth, because it didn't feel real until this moment, but Stan is inside him, impossibly deep, and it's so fucking good that he can't even find the strength to scream.  
  
“I think I – _oh_.” Stan's eyes pinch shut, his hips moving in shallow thrusts, making Kyle's eyelids flutter, his mouth so wet. “I think I built that clubhouse for you.”  
  
“Yeah?” Kyle's hands are tight around Stan's shoulders, his mouth open under the hot push of Stan's breath, everything he has so wide open for Stan.  
  
“Yeah,” Stan says, and his eyes change, tears still dumping down his cheeks but the fear fading from him, hardening into something that makes Kyle shudder. “Not so I could kiss you, because I was afraid to kiss you. But – but. So I could have you there, to – I don't know, _fuck_ , Kyle. I think I always wanted to show you what, what I could give you – if I wasn't so scared.”  
  
“Dumbass,” Kyle sobs out, and Stan laughs down into his mouth. They lap at each other gracelessly, without technique, pressing against each other as tightly as they can, until Kyle cries out at the feeling of Stan grinding into him so deeply that he feels like he'll break. Stan whines with sympathy and pulls back, but Kyle only clutches at him in response, won't let him get far.  
  
Kyle can see it in Stan's eyes, knows that Stan is going to come the same instant that Stan does. He grabs Stan's ass and pushes him in harder, makes him move faster, and groans along with him as he unloads. Stan closes his mouth over Kyle's and huffs into him, scrabbling between their sweat-slick stomachs to find Kyle's cock. Kyle is almost too out of it to come, too overloaded with things to consider, worry over, organize and doubt. What finally sends him over the edge is Stan's teeth sliding slow over his bottom lip, drawing Kyle's whole body up from the mattress as he arches and breaks. He shouts when he comes, glad that Stan's parents are passed out at some party, his sister at college, the whole house empty for them.  
  
The quiet of the world reestablishes itself around them, all the earth silent except for their panting. Kyle turns toward the window, Stan's head tucked against his neck, and laughs when he sees the first dusting of snow since the end of the last long winter.  
  
“Please,” Stan says, and only then does Kyle realize that Stan is actually crying harder than he is, his whole body wracked by it. “Please believe me.”  
  
“Believe you?” Kyle feels as if he's waking from a hundred year slumber, his body still throbbing around the pressure of Stan's cock, which is both alien and oddly familiar, like a piece of himself that he lost a lifetime ago.  
  
“I did this for you,” Stan says. He rubs his wet face against Kyle's cheek, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “I lied before. I just wanted to – inside you, I wanted – you, I wanted you.”  
  
“Why?” Kyle says. He rubs his own cheeks dry with his thumbs, then wipes at Stan's. “Didn't you know – couldn't you tell?”  
  
“No,” Stan says. He scoffs, still pushed so deep inside Kyle that he's not sure they'll be able to separate. “I'd been poking at you since we were eleven, trying to get you to even, like – fucking hold my hand, and you just acted like you barely noticed.”  
  
“Poking at me? I thought – I thought it was just a weird best friends thing. Just like. Our quirk.”  
  
Stan laughs, all of the angst leaving his features in an instant, his smile warm against Kyle's lips. He pulls out then, like he's gotten all the promises he needs, secure enough now to undo their physical connection for the time being.  
  
“Our quirk,” Stan says. He flops onto his side and tugs Kyle against him. “Yeah. Our quirk is fucking. That's not a best friend thing. Or – it is, but it's a boyfriend thing, too.”  
  
“So you're not gonna read that book?” Kyle asks, nudging his nose up under Stan's jaw. It's been bugging him, the idea of Stan suffering with Virginia Woolf, frowning and trying to understand.  
  
“What book?” Stan asks. He sighs as he settles in around Kyle, scratching fingers through Kyle's hair, rubbing his back. It all feels different now, intentional, and Kyle doesn't know how he missed that before, except that he was afraid to hope that it could possibly mean anything.  
  
“The Wendy book,” Kyle says. “The one she wanted you to read.”  
  
“Oh – Wendy,” Stan says. “She's, uh. She's the first person who ever told me I loved you.”  
  
Kyle goes stiff in Stan's arms, then holds on tight, trying to tell him without words that it's okay, that he's wanted to hear this, that all of the things he was afraid to suspect are true.  
  
“Ike told me,” Kyle says, whispering. “He asked me what the hell I was waiting for.”  
  
“Wendy asked me the same thing,” Stan says. “Basically.”  
  
“So? What were we waiting for?”  
  
It's so easy to say now, with Stan's body curled all around him, protective and tired, his softening cock warm on Kyle's thigh. Before, Stan's touches were mysterious, a language Kyle had heard but never understood. He feels like he's touched a Rosetta Stone, or been transformed into one, sated with fluency.  
  
“We were waiting for – I don't know.” Stan sits up on his elbow and looks down at Kyle, cupping his cheek, worshipful in the snow-scented moonlight through the window. Kyle faints into his touch, too tired to doubt how effortless everything has suddenly become. His body is still pulsing, singing to itself, remade by the comfort of knowing that it can contain Stan's.  
  
“We were waiting for me to grow the balls to ask,” Stan says. He sinks down to the pillow, pressing his face to Kyle's.  
  
“You knew I would say yes,” Kyle says.  
  
“No. Kyle, Jesus. Ever since I learned what sex was I was worried that you wouldn't have it with me.”  
  
“So you decided to drive me crazy acting like you wanted it from Wendy instead?”  
  
“No, I – I guess I protected myself, pretending I wanted it with Wendy.”  
  
“She'll hate me.”  
  
“She'll love you,” Stan says. It's like hearing it again, that Stan loves him, that he always has.  
  
“Yeah, right.”  
  
“She will.” Stan kisses him, and it's already easier, they're already getting better, Kyle's tongue finding Stan's, teasing against it before retreating, making him moan.  
  
“Why would she love me?” Kyle asks. He laughs, and realizes that he's finally stopped crying, the salt on his cheeks complimenting the oddly pleasurable burn in his ass. “I stole her boyfriend.”  
  
“She always called you my boyfriend,” Stan says. “When she was mad at me, and even when she wasn't. Always.”  
  
“Cartman calls you my boyfriend,” Kyle says. “Doesn't mean he'll throw us a party when he hears about this.”  
  
“Yeah, he will,” Stan says, pinching Kyle's side under the blankets. “I'm pretty sure he had a bet with Kenny.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“That, uh, I would bed you before high school graduation. Kenny bet on after.”  
  
“Jesus Christ!”  
  
“It's the only time I ever wanted Cartman to win anything,” Stan says, and he seems gravely serious for a moment, but then they both start laughing hard, and it turns into a kind of wrestling match, Kyle's boxers finally kicked to the end of the bed. The snow fall intensifies outside, and Kyle pins Stan briefly, before getting tipped onto his back and held down, his head hanging over the edge of the bed. He laughs so hard that he feels like he'll burst like a firecracker, but Stan holds him together, pulls him back until his head is on the pillow. They kiss, Kyle's hands timid on Stan's chest, Stan's shaking on Kyle's face. Maybe Stan will be inside Kyle a thousand times before they stop being afraid to speak the secret language they invented, or maybe they'll always tremble for the chance to touch each other. Kyle would be okay with that.


	3. Titmice of Colorado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle drags Stan on a nature hike for extra credit.

They've never ridden their bikes this far out of town before. They're well past Stark's Pond, at the base of the mountains, birds screaming at the sunrise. It's way too early to be awake on a Saturday, but Kyle's been having a hard time lately, and Stan wanted to do something nice for him. He was thinking more like: slumber party, just the two of them, video games, pizza, but of course Kyle "Will There be Opportunities for Extra Credit?" Broflovski had to drag schoolwork into it, too.  
  
"So what are we looking for exactly?" Stan asks when they've parked their bikes near a creek bed that will be their base camp for the afternoon. Stan is tired, already dreading the two and half hour ride back into town. They stayed up until three in the morning last night, bullshitting and drinking Mountain Dew, finally talking for real right before sleep. Two weeks ago, Kyle snapped and punched Eric Cartman right in the middle of the lunch room, breaking his nose. He was suspended, and forced into anger management counseling, and he's trying to act like he's taking it all in stride, like it was just another instance of Cartman pushing him until he couldn't take it anymore, but Stan knows Kyle and something else is wrong. He didn't get it out of him last night, but Kyle softened up a bit before they both dropped into sleep, admitting that he's got a lot on his mind. Stan hopes that this little nature expedition will bring it out of him.  
  
"We're looking for any of these birds," Kyle says, pulling a laminated identification sheet out of his backpack. "I think we get the most points if we find a Juniper or Oak Titmouse."   
  
"A Juniper or Oak Titmouse?"   
  
"Yeah," Kyle says, seeming to miss Stan's disbelief. "But we'll have to get a picture." He holds up the camera that's hanging around his neck. Stan sighs. They've been in high school for almost two months now, and he's beginning to get the sense that Kyle's ultimate classification will be as a dork. He had a growth spurt when they were thirteen but he's still not very tall, and kind of scrawny, and interested in titmice more than actual tits, so far as Stan can tell. Stan doesn't give a shit: Kyle is his best friend, forever, no matter what, but he doesn't want to watch Cartman rally other assholes into picking on Kyle for the next four years.  
  
"So where do we start?" Stan asks.   
  
"Let's walk to a higher elevation," Kyle says. "They live in really tall pines - we can chain our bikes up here."   
  
"I don't think we need to chain them," Stan says. "We're in the middle of bumfuck here."   
  
"Bigfoot might want a bike, though," Kyle says. He chains his bike to a skinny birch tree, then drags Stan's over to do it for him.  
  
"How many extra credit points would you get if you found Bigfoot?" Stan asks.   
  
"I don't know, let's find out." Kyle lifts the camera and snaps a picture of Stan.  
  
"Oh my God, you're so funny," Stan says, and Kyle smirks like he thinks that, yes, he is. He's always teasing Stan about how big he's gotten in the past year, but Stan thinks he's just jealous. To demonstrate the advantage of being six feet tall and kind of ripped after a summer of grueling football practices, Stan grabs Kyle and lifts him wholly off the ground.  
  
"Quit it," Kyle says, though he's laughing pretty hard, clinging to Stan's shoulders as Stan walks toward the creek. "My camera!"  
  
"How about I throw you in?" Stan says, his fingers moving up along Kyle's ribs. Kyle laughs and jerks in his grip, still holding on tight, his arms wrapped around Stan's neck, legs around his back.   
  
"Don't," Kyle says, as if Stan actually would. "I'll kick your ass."   
  
"A-ha-ha: really? You'll kick my ass?" Stan tickles him more brutally, up under his arms. Kyle shrieks and lurches backward, throwing Stan off balance. They land hard in the moss by the creek, Kyle's hat nearly tumbling into the water before Stan reaches up to save it.  
  
"Ow, dude, fuck," Kyle says, looking sincerely pissed as Stan leans up over him. Stan tries to hide how out of breath he is as he pulls Kyle's hat back on for him, one green flap in each hand.   
  
"Will you ever stop wearing this?" he asks, still holding the flaps. Kyle is breathless, too, from tickle torture, or growing rage.   
  
"I thought you liked it," Kyle says. He reaches up to grab Stan's wrists as if he's going to yank them away from his hat, but then he just holds them. "You told me, once. That you liked this hat."   
  
"No, yeah," Stan says. He should move, maybe, but Kyle is holding his wrists. "I'd be sad if you got rid of it."   
  
Kyle has no snappy retort for this. The irritation evaporates from his eyes, which seems to make them greener, or maybe it's just the moss bringing out their color. Stan clears his throat and gets up, pulling Kyle with him.  
  
"So," Stan says. "Titmice?"   
  
"Yeah, titmice," Kyle says, muttering. He heads for higher ground, and Stan follows.  
  
The relative cool of the early morning dies off quickly, and they're both sweating, Stan watching the progress of the wet 'V' that's soaking down the back of Kyle's shirt. Kyle takes pictures of mushrooms and collects bark specimens. Stan's canteen is empty an hour into their hike.   
  
"Lunch break?" he says for the tenth time. Kyle turns to give him a look.   
  
"Dude, it's like eleven o'clock."   
  
"So? I'm hungry. Lemme have my sandwich."  
  
"You're always hungry," Kyle says, but he sets his pack down and unzips it, digging inside until he comes up with the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches they made together this morning, Kyle in charge of jelly, Stan spreading the peanut butter. Same as it's been since they were six years old.  
  
They sit together on a felled tree trunk and eat in silence, Kyle allowing Stan to drink from his canteen. The forest is eerily quiet around them, the only bird calls way far off, from higher on the mountain.   
  
"You're gonna owe me a back rub for this," Stan says. His is already aching, half from this and half from riding the bench all through Friday night's game, watching the upperclassmen battle it out on the field.   
  
"Fine, I'll give you one later," Kyle says. His face is pink. Stan reaches into the pack and pulls out the sunscreen, but Kyle glowers at it and leans away when Stan tries to rub some on his cheek.  
  
"Get your lily white ass over here," Stan says, pursuing him. "I made sure to bring the SPF 50, special ginger kid formula."   
  
"Don't call me a ginger - ah!" Kyle falls backward off the log and lands on his ass. Stan pounces on him, laughing, but Kyle seems to want to fight for real, growling out curse words and throwing his elbows up at Stan.   
  
"Relax, Cartman killer," Stan says. He pins Kyle's arms and regrets bringing up Cartman when he sees Kyle's face. He's huffing, glaring up at Stan, in full-blown fury mode.  
  
"Why do you always have to be molesting me?" Kyle asks, shouting. Stan rears back, laughing, though the question makes his heart pound and his stomach hurt.   
  
"'Cause I'm so madly in love with you," he says, holding Kyle down when he struggles, the pink on his cheeks turning red now. "'Cause I want to kiss you so bad, Kyle, can't you tell?"  
  
"Get off!" Kyle shouts, bucking. Stan should, but he's pissed off, tired of seeing Kyle go from normal to enraged in ten seconds flat. At least when they were kids he would give Stan fair warning as he worked his way up to atomic-level anger. Kyle is so mad that his eyes are wet, just because of some stupid joke about sunscreen.   
  
"What's the matter with you?" Stan asks. "Why won't you just tell me what's going on?"  
  
"You don't get to know everything about me," Kyle says. His voice is shaking, and his eyes are still hard and mean, though he's gone limp under Stan's weight, his hands in fists.   
  
"How come?" Stan says. "I'm your best friend. I know everything, okay? I know you're still kind of afraid of the shower drain and you have Sting mp3s and you hump your mattress when you're having a wet dream - what the fuck is there that you can't tell me?"  
  
"Just leave me alone," Kyle says, barely getting the words out before a sob makes his whole body jerk. He pinches his eyes shut, tears streaking down both sides of his face. Stan stares at him, his mouth hanging open, though he's not sure why he should be so surprised. When they were kids, Kyle would cry so easily, and usually only in front of Stan, who would put an arm around him and leave it there until he'd sniffled himself dry, Kyle's face pressed to the crook of Stan's neck. It's been a long time since Stan last saw Kyle like this, broken open.   
  
"Dude, Kyle, hey." He pulls Kyle up by his wrists, trying to tuck him against his chest, but Kyle fights free and stumbles away, bracing himself against a tree trunk.   
  
"Fuck, God, why do you have to be this way?" Kyle says, his back to Stan.  
  
"What way?" Stan gets up shakily, guilt coating his lungs so thickly that his breathing gets shallow. The last thing he wants to be is another source of stress for Kyle; they used to be able to tease each other without any real friction. He walks to Kyle and tries to hug him again, but Kyle bats his hands away and moves to another tree, wiping his eyes with his palms.   
  
"Don't be so fucking nice to me," Kyle says.   
  
"Uh? What?"  
  
"I can't take it anymore!"  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"You," Kyle says. His hands go tense against the bark of the tree, and Stan worries that he'll pop a fingernail off. "Just - shit. Shit!"  
  
"Kyle, please," Stan says, and his voice is starting to go now. "What's wrong? Let me help you." He walks a little closer, almost afraid that Kyle will throw a punch. Kyle folds his arms on the tree and hides his face against them, crying again. Stan moves forward cautiously, and when his hands reach Kyle's shoulders, Kyle doesn't shrug him off.   
  
"Let me help you," Stan says again. His heart is slamming, hands shaking. He's always hated seeing Kyle in distress. It makes him primal and protective, like Kyle is his . . . like Kyle is _his_.  
  
"Don't," Kyle says, but he lets Stan's arms wind around his shoulders, and lets Stan tug him against his chest, hugging him from behind. Kyle is such a prolific crier, when he gets going, that Stan can always smell his tears, that salt against his skin.  
  
"It's okay," Stan says, whispering. The woods stay quiet around them, and he's glad they're alone, far from everyone, where Kyle can have his breakdown in private. He's glad, too, that he's the one here to see him through it. Not even Kyle's parents know how to comfort him when he gets worked up like this. Not as well as Stan does, anyway.  
  
"Fuck, Stan," Kyle says, still choking out wet little sobs. Stan holds him closer, his body doing that thing that it does when Kyle seems to fit against him like a Lego piece. That floaty, tingling thing.   
  
"It's alright," Stan says. "Shh. Just - here." He turns Kyle around in his arms, half expecting Kyle to regain his fighting stance and stagger backward, but Kyle clings to him, burying his face against Stan's shoulder.   
  
"You're so fucking giant now," Kyle says, sniffling while Stan holds him, his chin resting on top of Kyle's hat.   
  
"Sorry," Stan says. "You'll catch up."   
  
"Don't apologize," Kyle says. He laughs a little, weakly. "You douche. Are you wearing Axe?"  
  
"It's not Axe!" It is, actually, and Stan was hoping Kyle wouldn't notice. He wasn't planning on holding him like this. "It's Old Spice."  
  
Kyle laughs again, his arms winding tightly around Stan's back. He pushes out a series of choppy sighs as he regains his composure, and Stan rubs his fingers over the top of Kyle's hat, which has gotten a little rough over the years, the fabric worn in places.   
  
"Fuck," Kyle says. "I can't believe I cried."   
  
"It was good," Stan says. "You needed that. I could tell. Now tell me what's wrong."  
  
"Shut up for a second." Kyle sniffles and wipes his nose on Stan's shirt, or maybe he's nuzzling him. Stan grins and looks up at the treetops. If any other guy - and hell, most girls - tried to nuzzle him, he'd wheel backward, but he doesn't even mind the idea of Kyle's snot on his shirt.   
  
"Is it about Cartman?" Stan says. "'Cause I'll break his nose all over again if he -"   
  
"I said shut up." Kyle sighs. "And no, Cartman is not worth getting upset over. He's just a symptom."  
  
"A symptom of what?"  
  
Kyle shakes his head.  
  
"Don't make me pick you up again," Stan says.   
  
"Why are you always doing that?" Kyle asks, showing Stan his face. He looks angry again, but not crazy-angry.   
  
"Sorry," Stan says, embarrassed. He loosens his grip on Kyle. "I won't - if you - I mean, I didn't think it bugged you."  
  
"It doesn't bug me," Kyle says. He takes Stan's arms and pulls them around him again. "That's, uh. The problem."   
  
"The problem?" Stan feels like he needs to sit down; maybe the elevation is getting to him. He keeps wanting to press his face to Kyle's cheek, which is weird. He just can't stop thinking about what it would feel like, Kyle's skin all sticky and damp and raw from his tears.   
  
"I don't know if we can be friends anymore, like we used to be," Kyle says. Stan huffs in surprise, so hurt that he'd be falling over onto his ass if Kyle wasn't holding him up.   
  
"Why the fuck not?"  
  
"'Cause - here, dumb ass, I'll show you."  
  
Kyle must want to press his face to Stan's, too, because he's leaning up to do it, only no, he's pushing his lips against Stan's, trying to lick them apart. Kissing him. He pulls back just as Stan's mouth falls open, either in surprise or invitation, he's not even sure. He needs to stop touching Kyle for a minute, so he walks backward, their eyes still locked.   
  
"See?" Kyle's face is burning, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "So that's what's wrong with me, asshole. Since you fucking had to know."   
  
He turns away from Stan and lifts his hat up to reposition his hair beneath it, a nervous habit he's had since grade school. Stan licks his lips. Kyle's breath was pure peanut butter.   
  
"Kyle," he says, just testing the name on his tongue, now that it means something different. Kyle turns to him and glares, waiting for more.   
  
"Yeah, go ahead," he says. "You didn't know, you didn't mean to lead me on, you like girls - what are you -"  
  
Stan has always been able to shut Kyle up by tackling him, and that's what he does now, lifting him off the ground. It's a complicated maneuver and it's sloppy at first, their lips crashing together, Kyle unsteady in Stan's grip until his hands find Stan's shoulders. Stan's are resting under Kyle's thighs, his fingers dangerously close to terrain that could be classified as Kyle's ass, but maybe it doesn't matter, because they're kissing for real now, moaning, Kyle's tongue sliding into Stan's mouth.  
  
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Kyle says, panting, his eyes wide, pupils totally blown.   
  
"Yeah, this is obviously an elaborate joke," Stan says. He laughs when Kyle bites his lip in response, not hard enough to break the skin, but pretty fucking hard.   
  
"I just." Kyle pulls back to blink at him, checking Stan's eyes as if part of him does suspect that this is all a prank. "I never thought you'd, um." He kisses Stan again, just softly. "That you liked me like this," he says, whispering the words against Stan's lips.   
  
"Even though I'm always molesting you?" Stan says. He's grinning, eerily calm. The word _DUH_ is bouncing around inside his skull like a crazed monkey. He sometimes jerks off to the memory of that morning when he woke up to Kyle humping his mattress through a wet dream, pushing out frustrated little whimpers, fingers in his mouth, knees spread apart. So that makes more sense now.  
  
"The constant molestation was the only thing that gave me hope," Kyle says. His smile comes slowly, but it's the brightest one Stan has seen on him in months. "Dude," Kyle says. "Now what?"  
  
"I don't know," Stan says. He's still holding Kyle, his arms beginning to shake. "I'm kinda hard."   
  
"Me too." Kyle laughs nervously and rubs his face against Stan's, definitely nuzzling. "There's napkins in the backpack."   
  
"And sunscreen."   
  
"Are we really gonna do this?" Kyle asks. He sits back in the cradle of Stan's arms, chews his lip.   
  
"We don't have to," Stan says. "We could look for titmice."   
  
"I don't think I can look for titmice with a boner."   
  
"Me either."  
  
They find a glen that's relatively secluded, and Stan sits down with his back to dinosaur-era tree that makes him feel tiny, Kyle in his lap. For a long time they just kiss, blushing, working up their nerve. There's some dry humping that makes Kyle gasp, and Stan watches his eyelashes flutter, bucking his hips harder. His dick is starting to chafe, but he's still afraid to expose it to the light of day. They're both dripping with sweat, and when little rivulets run down Kyle's neck and pool in the hollow of his throat, Stan licks them up for him.   
  
"Fuck," Kyle says, high-pitched, his hands fisted around the sleeves of Stan's t-shirt. "Gonna - I'm gonna -"   
  
"Here, okay." For the sole purpose of helping Kyle to not have sticky boxers for the remainder of the day, Stan hurries to get the front of his pants open. Kyle's legs fall apart and he nods crazily in encouragement, his hips still moving, humping the air now.  
  
"Pull it out," Kyle says, panting, watching Stan fumble gracelessly with the slit in his boxers, easing it around Kyle's cock, which is red like he's been chafing, too. Kyle moans and arches back when Stan's hand wraps around him, like he was on fire and Stan just threw water over him.   
  
"Want the sunscreen?" Stan asks.   
  
"No time, just - once, please, I'm so close -"  
  
Stan ends up coming in his pants just from watching Kyle go off, and from the way he shouts and goes boneless, his mouth wide open and his eyes closed as his dick pulses in Stan's hand. Stan cradles him while his own orgasm shakes its way down his spine, and when he's conscious again Kyle is slumped against his chest, panting and humid and trembling. Stan's arms tighten around Kyle's back, and they just lie there like that for a long time, wind moving through the treetops overhead.   
  
"You came," Kyle says. He sounds half asleep, still curled up against Stan's chest. "Right?"  
  
"Uh, yeah. Whoops."  
  
"Want the napkins?"  
  
"In a second."   
  
"I'm so hot, dude," Kyle says, laughing. "I think I melted."   
  
"We should go back to that creek and swim," Stan says.   
  
"Totally."   
  
They end up napping thinly, not even reaching for the napkins. Stan wakes up to the sound of critters encroaching: a chipmunk skittering across the clearing, woodpeckers circling tree trunks as they peck for insects. He traces the edge of Kyle's ear with his finger, wondering if he should wake him. When Kyle finally sits up he yawns hugely, still straddling Stan's lap, his hands on Stan's chest. Stan pulls him in for a kiss, and Kyle melts into it, laughing against his lips.   
  
"What?" Stan says.   
  
"Nothing," Kyle says, mumbling, his eyes still heavy-lidded. "Just - I think you sweated all your Axe off."   
  
"Trying to tell me I stink?"  
  
"Nuh-uh." Kyle shakes his head. "I like the way your sweat smells. Isn't that sick? That was how I knew. In the mornings, in the summer, when you'd sleep over. Later, you know, my sheets would smell like your sweat."  
  
"And?" Stan says, smirking.   
  
"And I'd totally lie there and beat off to the thought of you being all manly and lifting me off the ground," Kyle says, sarcastically, though Stan thinks it's probably true. Kyle must sense this, because he reaches up under Stan's arms and tickles him until he can't breathe.  
  
As they make their way back to the creek, Kyle gets serious about extra credit again, taking pictures and making Stan stop and stand in silence while he listens for bird activity. Stan tries to tease little noises out of him, mouthing at his neck while he listens for Juniper Titmice, but Kyle is unflappable. The heat of the day is at its peak, and by the time they reach the creek Stan shucks his clothes without hesitation.   
  
"What if someone comes by and sees?" Kyle says, shirtless at the edge of the water, his hand on his zipper.   
  
"No one's coming by," Stan says. He's naked except for his boxers - they could use a rinsing anyway - and he winces as he wades into the water, which is ice cold, straight from the still snow-covered top of the mountain. He sits down in the shallowest part of the creek and leans back onto his elbows, letting the water run over his shoulders.   
  
"It's freezing!" Kyle says as he works his way out toward Stan, sort of tip toeing through the water.   
  
"Feels good," Stan says, and Kyle blushes.   
  
"I'm gonna lay on you," Kyle announces as he squats down into the water.  
  
"Be my guest."  
  
They pass the hottest part of the day this way, Kyle toying with Stan's nipples while he talks about school, college basketball, how awesome it felt to break Cartman's nose.   
  
"He's suing me, naturally," Kyle says. "My parents, I mean. Two million dollars for emotional scarring."   
  
"He won't get it," Stan says. Kyle huffs.   
  
"Yeah, but he'll still take it all the way to the federal court of appeals if he can."  
  
"So he'll be out the legal fees," Stan says. "At least your dad can represent himself instead of paying a lawyer." He kisses Kyle's hair, which is damp and matted from being under his hat all day. "Don't worry."   
  
"I do feel less stressed," Kyle says. The things he's doing to Stan's nipples are kind of amazing, and he'd be hard if he wasn't lying in cold water.   
  
"You can lick them if you want," Stan says. "You know, if that would further decrease your stress."   
  
"I - huh? Oh." Kyle smirks and gives Stan's left nipple a flick. "I wasn't even paying attention. They're just sort of mesmerizing."   
  
"All the more reason to lick them?"  
  
So by the time they get out of the creek Stan is hard as hell, despite the temperature of the water. The heat of Kyle's mouth balanced it out pretty well. They stretch out on the bank of the creek to dry off, and Kyle laughs when he sees Stan's tented boxers.   
  
"Feel free to continue your lick therapy," Stan says, and he's totally joking, so he gasps like a school girl when Kyle leans over to push Stan's wet boxers out of the way and put his mouth around his cock, and in maybe two seconds Stan is coming hard, feeling electrocuted.   
  
"Right in the face," Kyle says, wiping his cheek. Stan is still breathless, speechless, leaking fat drops of come.   
  
"Fucking shit," he gasps out when he regains his voice.  
  
"You can thank me later," Kyle says. He cuddles up to Stan's side and rests his head on Stan's shoulder, closes his eyes. "I'm just gonna rest for a second, then it's titmouse time."   
  
"Goddamn," Stan says, still reeling. He tucks his dick back into this boxers and wraps his arm around Kyle's back. "I think I'm gonna get hard every time I hear the word _titmouse_ , after this."   
  
"Good thing it doesn't usually come up in casual conversation," Kyle says.  
  
Stan falls asleep, and when he wakes up the sun is starting to drop toward the mountains, the first hint of the end of the afternoon creeping into the color of the sky. Kyle is sitting Indian-style beside him, still wearing only his boxers as he pages through pictures on his camera.   
  
"We should head back," Stan says. He rubs his eyes and sits up, scooting over to rest his chin on Kyle's shoulder. "Did you find your birds?"  
  
"No," Kyle says. "Elusive fuckers."  
  
"Maybe a whole flock of 'em will be hopping around in your front yard when you get home. Just to make you feel like an ass for coming all the way out here."   
  
"Yeah." Kyle puts the camera down and turns to kiss Stan's cheek. "Pretty good field trip, though."   
  
"Pretty good. Can I spend the night tonight?"  
  
"Fuck, dude. You can't _not_ spend the night tonight. I mean, you owe me a blow job."  
  
"Okay, but I'm probably gonna suck at it." Stan hears what he just said, and Kyle turns to look at him with disbelief.   
  
"Yeah, that's the idea," he says before they both start cracking up, Stan tackling Kyle down to the moss that matches his eyes.  
  
By the time they get to Kyle's house it's dark, and there are no titmice in the front yard. Kyle doesn't seem especially disappointed. He even smiles through a lecture from his mother on how he should call if he's going to be this late.  
  
"Where did you guys even go?" Ike asks as they pass behind him, headed for the stairs, Stan wondering if they could get away with taking their pre-dinner shower together.   
  
"Titmouse hunt," Kyle says.  
  
"Kyle!" his mother shouts from the kitchen.   
  
"What, Mom?" Kyle shouts back as Stan pushes him up the stairs, chewing on his tongue to keep from laughing. "They're birds!"   
  
"You guys are so gay," Ike says, and they break for Kyle's bedroom without rebuttal.


	4. Clubhouses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four first kisses.

I.  
  
They're on their way back from a Rockies game. Stan is driving the ten year old Camry that he's been sharing with his mom since he got his license last year, clipping along at just a few miles over the speed limit. The windows are down, the highway is uncrowded, and Kyle is asleep in the passenger seat. They both still find baseball pretty fucking boring, but it was an excuse to get out of South Park on a Sunday afternoon, and they had a great time eating ball park food and kicking back in the cheap seats. The weather is beautiful, just the faintest scent of winter lingering in the mountain air. It's May, five days before Kyle's sixteenth birthday, when he'll get his driver's license and start fighting Stan for the chance to be the one who drives the two of them around. Kyle's parents have already bought him a brand new hybrid SUV, something Cartman has been giving him hell for all week.   
  
Forty miles out of South Park, Stan starts to get the soda pop feeling low in his stomach. It's been happening a lot since the start of spring, especially when it's just him and Kyle. Stan feels like driving past the exit for South Park and prolonging this moment, the exhilaration of being out on the open highway coupled with the safety of being beside his best friend. The soda pop feeling expands in his stomach, something like doing an underwater flip in the shallow end of the pool, a sensation he attributes to being at the very start of what should be an awesome summer.  
  
Kyle wakes up when Stan pulls over to get gas. They're far enough outside of the city that there's nothing but prairie around for miles, the mountains clearly visible and still snow-capped, birds that have returned for spring noisy in a grove of trees behind the gas station. Stan folds his arms on the steering wheel and rests his head on them, watching Kyle yawn and stretch.  
  
"I don't want to go back," Stan says while the car's engine clicks and settles, cooling off. "We should go to the city every weekend."  
  
"Yeah," Kyle says, drowsy and not really listening. He scratches at his side and unhooks his seat belt. "I have to pee," he says. "You want anything?"  
  
"Yeah, bring me back a big jar full of it," Stan says, and Kyle smirks, reaching over to shove him. They both climb out of the car, Kyle heading for the gas station convenience store, still a little sleep-raw, his shoulders hunched up. Stan goes for the pump, watching Kyle as he heads into the store, the bell on the door clanging overhead. Stan is fidgety with happiness, and wants to lock this dwindling afternoon inside a room where he can always return to it.  
  
Stan watches the price on the meter chug upward and thinks about what the rest of the day will be like. He'll drop Kyle off at his house, go home and take a shower, waste a few hours before dinner playing video games. He's not sure why this should all feel so sinister, like a thing worth driving past their exit to avoid, except that Kyle won't be with him. Maybe Kyle could come back to the house with him, they could both skip showering and go straight into video games, and Kyle could spend the night like he did last night, and the night before that, and the night before that. They try to limit their sleepovers to four or five a week during summer, to keep Stan's father from giving him suspicious looks and Cartman from ragging on them for acting like fags, but sleeping without Kyle has gotten hard for Stan lately. He needs Kyle there to bump up against in the middle of the night when the world is so still that it feels menacing, and to wake up with in lazy stages, the two of them exchanging mumbled bits of conversation while their heads rest on the same pillow.  
  
The process of realizing that he's in love with his best friend has been so slow that the moment when the thought first takes concrete shape feels way too abrupt, like being shoved off of a cliff. The bell over the convenience store door clangs again, and Stan looks up, desperate to see Kyle, but it's not him, just a scrawny old man wearing suspenders over his red and black flannel shirt. The man climbs into his truck and drives off, and Stan's heart starts to beat faster, because it shouldn't be taking Kyle this long to pee, and Stan needs to see him right now, before it's too late. This is the moment when he knows what he wants, and it's fragile enough to blow away like an eyelash that might be wished on.  
  
When Kyle comes out of the store he's still looking a little dazed and tired, hugging a bag of Doritos to his chest while he twists off the cap on a Sprite. Kyle is the only guy Stan has ever met who actually likes Sprite. Stan beams at him as he walks closer, because suddenly it's like the Sprite is further proof that Kyle belongs to him, always has, and always will.  
  
"What?" Kyle asks when he comes closer. He returns Stan's grin without knowing why, the cap hissing away from the Sprite bottle.  
  
"Nothing," Stan says. "C'mere."   
  
He takes Kyle by the hips and pulls him close, watching Kyle's eyes change as he realizes what's happening. Stan kisses him on the lips, just once, softly, testing. He pulls back and gives Kyle his mildest, calmest expression, even as his heart slams in his chest. Kyle's lips are parted, his eyes wide. When his gaze flicks down to Stan's mouth, Stan pulls him in for another kiss, licking past Kyle's lips this time. They both sigh like rescued hostages when their tongues slide together. The Doritos bag crinkles between their chests, chips snapping inside it, and Stan can hear the Sprite bottle fizzing as Kyle's hips settle firmly against his.   
  
"God," Kyle whispers into Stan's mouth. "Shit, I -- someone will see."  
  
"Who, a prairie dog? You taste like nachos. I fucking love you, okay?"  
  
"Okay. Yeah -- wait." Kyle frowns a little. "You can't -- this can't be this easy for you."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I've -- angsted over this, okay? This moment? I've wondered if it would ever really happen, I've wondered how, what you would do if tried to --"  
  
"I'm sorry," Stan says, offering a pout that makes Kyle laugh and close his eyes. He rests his forehead against Stan's cheek and hugs his arms around Stan's neck, the Doritos bag in one hand and the Sprite in the other. It feels so good, their chests coming fully together, Kyle relaxing against him as he lets all the air out of his chest in a long, slow breath. Stan rubs Kyle's back, kisses his eyebrow, and watches for onlookers but doesn't see any.  
  
"You're spending the night tonight, okay?" Stan says.  
  
"Okay," Kyle says, and he shivers a little, so Stan squeezes him in closer. He feels like he should sing to Kyle, get down on his knees, do something dramatic, but they just stay there like that for a long time, leaning against the car, holding on tight.  
  
II.  
  
Butters is having a bad dream when he hears the knock on the window, and for a moment the knock is part of the nightmare, but he's grown accustomed to the sight of a dark figure crouching outside his window, one foot balanced on a tree branch and the other on the sill, and relief comes quickly. It's not a nightmare or even a good dream: it's his real life personal superhero.   
  
"Mysterion!" he says as he scrambles up from the blankets and hurries to unlatch the window. He used to leave it unlocked, but Kenny told him it was too dangerous, making Butters vulnerable to the likes of Cartman or one of Mysterion's other sworn enemies. Butters used to be an enemy of Mysterion himself, sort of, but he retired his Professor Chaos costume back in middle school. It happened in seventh grade, when Kenny punched Cartman for trying to make Butters drink from a Mountain Dew bottle that Cartman had farted into. Butters didn't want to, but Cartman wouldn't let up, until Kenny finally grunted in frustration at the sound of Cartman's taunts, yanked Cartman up from the lunch table and clocked him hard enough to make him skid across the linoleum floor. Cartman sobbed until the nurse came to collect him, Kenny got suspended for three days, and Butters started to feel a little tug of interest in his heart-region every time he saw Kenny in the halls. The following summer, after watching Kenny's skin go from a pallid winter white to a pink-tinged glow over the course of a few days at the community pool, Butters started to feel a Kenny-related tug in his pants-region, too.  
  
"It's just a flesh wound," Kenny says when Butters gasps at the sight of blood on Kenny's costume. Butters hurries for the first aid kit that he keeps under his bed while Kenny sits on Butters' bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling back his mask. His cheeks are dirty with soot, and he's got a little scrape on his jaw in addition to the gash on his arm that he's got his hand pressed over.  
  
"What sorta enemy was it?" Butters asks as he watches Kenny carefully peel his shirt off, wincing a little when the torn fabric comes away from his wound.   
  
"It was the Chimneysweep," Kenny says, referring to a particularly vile local criminal who likes to drop pipe bombs down people's chimneys. "I tied him up and delivered him to the police. He got me with a fire poker, though."   
  
"Oh, geez," Butters says, pouting at the sight of Kenny's arm, which has been torn open crudely by the weapon. The gash is right over one of Butters' favorite parts of his superhero's body, the bicep that flexes when Butters takes hold of it carefully.   
  
"I'll just clean this right up," Butters says, scooting closer, the first aid kit in his lap. He became Mysterion's nursemaid by accident, after stumbling upon Kenny one night when he was particularly beat up, and for the past two years Kenny has relied on Butters to patch up his scrapes and cuts after bad fights. Butters is happy to do it, because Mysterion is an important force of good here in South Park, and because it gives him an excuse to touch Kenny.  
  
"It's getting bad out there," Kenny says while he watches Butters clean the wound, not once hissing at the pain that Butters knows he feels when the antibacterial solution seeps into the raw cut.   
  
"Well, South Park will always be okay as long as you're here, Mysterion," Butters says, though he feels a little odd calling Kenny 'Mysterion' when his face is uncovered like this. At school, during the day, they're not really friends, though they move in some of the same circles and Kenny still looks out for Butters, giving Cartman pointed looks if he gets too close. Butters is a straight A student and Kenny is still technically a sophomore, too tired from fighting crime to study hard. Kenny also does a lot of drugs, which Butters doesn't like, but he supposes a superhero must have a lot of things on his mind and needs to unwind sometimes. Butters just wishes Kenny would come up with some other way to relax in his downtime.   
  
"How about you, though?" Kenny says after a pause.  
  
"Me?"  
  
"You're leaving for college after this summer, aren't you?" Kenny's eyes are on Butter's hands as he pats the cleaned wound dry with a piece of gauze. "What will I do without you?"  
  
"Oh," Butters says, flushing. "Well, gosh. I hadn't thought about that. I guess I just sort of thought you'd go wherever I go, but that wouldn't be fair, would it?"  
  
"I don't know," Kenny says. "What has South Park done for me lately? I'd rather take care of you."   
  
Butters looks up at him with surprise and Kenny gives him a little smirk, a drop of blood from his cut rolling down the line of his jaw and dripping onto his chest. Butters isn't sure if Kenny is kidding or not, so he just looks back to his work, cinching a bandage securely around Kenny's arm.   
  
"Now I'll just give you a little band-aid for your jaw," Butters says. He's still blushing hard as he rubs a piece of gauze soaked in antibacterial gel across Kenny's cheeks, cleaning away the soot and dirt. Kenny is staring at Butters, unafraid, like always, and Butters can only meet his eyes in quick peeks, smiling nervously when he does. He cleans the cut on Kenny's jaw and pats it dry before pressing a tiny band-aid over it.  
  
"I mean it," Kenny says when Butters is done. His voice is soft, and so are his eyes, which can be so mean when he's in a fight. They're both sitting Indian-style on the bed, knees touching.   
  
"Don't you have to stay and finishing up your schoolin'?" Butters asks.   
  
"What for? So I can take pride in my high school diploma while I'm pumping gas? Look, if you don't want me to come --"  
  
"No, I do!" Butters says, his hands opening over Kenny's knees. "I do, Kenny, I do. I'm just surprised you'd want to, is all."  
  
"Why?" Kenny asks, laughing a little. He looks so cute with the band-aid on his jaw, and Butters is leaning toward him involuntarily, wanting to crawl into his lap. "Don't you know why I come here like this?" Kenny asks.  
  
"Well, sure," Butters says. "'Cause I got band-aids and stuff, and 'cause I let you sleep in my bed if you need to rest awhile."  
  
"Butters," Kenny says, and he closes his eyes for a moment, exasperated. "It's been two years. Two years of me coming to your window every time I get so much as a scratch. Two years of me letting you cuddle up against my chest while you sleep."  
  
"Oh -- ah -- I didn't realize I was doin' that --" Butters had thought Kenny was a deep enough sleeper than he wouldn't notice.  
  
"You think I come here just because I know you keep the band-aids well stocked?" Kenny asks. He grabs Butters' wrists, pulling him forward until their noses are almost touching, and his eyes aren't soft anymore. They're almost angry, Kenny's breath coming hard.   
  
"W-well yeah, that's what I th-thought --"  
  
"Butters, fuck! I come here because after a night spent out there with the scum of the earth, people who hurt innocents and steal from hard working citizens and try to stick knives through my ribs, I need to see you, because you're so good, so pure-hearted, because you're the thing that makes me want to keep doing this."   
  
They're both breathing hard now, a soft whine building in the back of Butters' throat as Kenny's grip on his wrists tightens.   
  
"You're the reason I come back," Kenny says. "Whatever my parents did in that fucking cult, whether I'm an old one or not, you're _my_ reason. For everything, Butters, for all of it."  
  
Butters opens his mouth to ask Kenny what a cult has to do with any of this, but Kenny falls on him then, crushing him down to the mattress, his cape fanning out around Butters' body. Kenny's kisses are wet and hungry, like he knows that there's a secret part of Butters that isn't pure at all, the part that has wanted this for so long, to have the air crushed from his lungs by the weight of Kenny's body.  
  
"Butters," Kenny says, and the name tastes good against Butters' lips; he loves the way Kenny says it, when his voice is scratchy with sleep or just exhaustion, and with whatever has overtaken him now, making it low and gravely like he's become Mysterion again. They're both shaking.  
  
"I hate it when people hurt you," Butters says, pressing two gentle fingers over the band-aid on Kenny's jaw. "It burns me right up."  
  
"I'll be okay," Kenny says. He's stroking his fingers through Butters' hair, smoothing Butters' eyebrows down with his thumbs. "I'll always be okay, and I'll always come back to you."   
  
"You promise?" Butters asks, his voice trembling a little. Kenny nods and leans in to kiss him again, more deeply now. Butters evaporates to nothing beneath him, his spine going mushy and warm as his legs spread and Kenny presses down against him. He's hard as a stone inside his pajama pants, from the strength of Kenny's arms as he pins Butters' hands to the mattress, the low growl behind his kisses, and the scent of smoke that lingers on his cape.   
  
An hour later, Butters has been thoroughly debauched, and he feels loose and drowsy while Kenny kisses his face and pets him in the aftermath. Butters knows he probably looks like a drooling idiot, smiling dazedly and curled up next to Kenny, his pajama pants and underwear somewhere on his bedroom floor, his shirt unbuttoned, but he doesn't care. Kenny is buck naked except for his Mysterion cape, which Butters asked him to leave on.   
  
"You alright?" Kenny asks, the words soft and close to Butters' ear. Butters' grin widens, and he nods.  
  
"Better than alright," he says, and Kenny laughs.  
  
"Mind if I sleep here tonight?" Kenny asks.   
  
"Oh, gosh, Kenny!" Butters takes a handful of Kenny's cape and pulls him down until they're nose to nose, the cape wrapped around both of them. "I think I'd cry if you didn't."  
  
Kenny grins and rearranges the cape so that it's snug around Butters' back, and the feeling of being tucked inside Mysterion's cape makes Butters shiver. He squirms closer to Kenny's chest, moaning a little as he nuzzles himself into a sleeping position, one arm wrapped around Kenny's back, his other hand curled under his chin.   
  
"Do you really promise that you'll always come back to me?" Butters asks, a stab of worry breaking through his contentment. "I wouldn't be able to stand it if anything happened to you."  
  
"I'll always come back," Kenny says, some of the Mysterion gruffness creeping back into his voice as he wraps himself more tightly around Butters. "Always. I promise."   
  
Butters falls asleep with a smile on his face, believing this, because Mysterion's cape smells like ancient magic, because Kenny's heartbeat is so strong against his cheek, and because something in Butter's own heart-region knows that it's the truth.  
  
III.  
  
Except for the break from paper deadlines and final exams, Wendy has begun to dread coming home from college for the holidays. She's just finished up the first semester of her junior year, and she's feeling frazzled enough with her advisers telling her that she needs to start thinking about applying to grad school and trying to publish papers in a few respected journals in the meantime. She really doesn't need the stresses of South Park on top of this, but the dorms are closing, none of her friends have invited her on lavish ski trips, and she's boarding a plane from Boston to Denver, steeling herself for two weeks of her neurotic parents and a town full of hick weirdos who have known her since she was a toddler.  
  
She finds her seat and immediately pulls out a novel, not wanting to get stuck talking to a fellow passenger for three and a half hours like she did last time she flew home. She could really go for a few weeks of not having to make small talk with anyone at all, but she knows that her time in South Park will require a lot of it. Every time her mother sends her out to the store for milk, Wendy will run into at least five assholes who she knew from school, and all of them will ask if she's aware that Stan and Kyle are _still_ together, eying her as if they're waiting for her to fly into a jealous rage. Just because she had one minor flip out at the start of their junior year, when she heard that Stan and Kyle were living up to the butt buddy nickname that Cartman had taunted them with for years, she will be forever remembered in South Park as an unstable psycho. As if she had no right to briefly act like a jealous maniac when she found out that the childhood sweetheart who'd just broken up with her a few months earlier had already moved on, not to another girl but to the boy who had always claimed more of Stan's attention than Wendy ever could.   
  
Wendy has never suffered more jealous misery than she did at the hands of Kyle Brovfloski, but she's past that now. She might be unattached at the moment, but that doesn't mean that she's not glad that Stan is happily committed, though she could do without having to see him and Kyle practically necking in line at the supermarket like they did last Christmas.   
  
“Move aside,” someone says as he makes his way down the aisle, and Wendy bristles, that voice sounding far too much like Eric Cartman's. Cartman goes to school in New England, too – Harvard, and Wendy is pretty sure that Cartman sold his soul to the devil to get in. She got in, too, but opted for Yale instead when she found out that Cartman would be at Harvard.  
  
“Oh, you are fucking kidding me,” Wendy mutters to herself when she sees that it _is_ Cartman, toting an overstuffed carry on and elbowing his way past an old lady. She tries to hide her face in her book, but it does little good, because Cartman stops at the seat right next to hers and tosses his bag into it.  
  
“Well, well, well,” he says, smirking with evil pleasure at this turn of events. “If it isn't my favorite hippie bitch with the power to turn men gay.”   
  
“There's no way you have the seat next to mine,” Wendy says, slamming her book down against her knees. “You did something – you traded on purpose just to sit next to me so you can irritate me for the entire flight!”  
  
“To the contrary, Wendy,” Cartman says, huffing a little as he stuffs his bag into the overhead compartment. “I did nothing of the sort, and I'll be spending my in-flight time working on a very important opinion piece for the _Herald_ about how the mere proximity of a clown college like Yale brings down the grades of my Harvard classmates by a proven two percent loss margin.”  
  
“That doesn't even make any sense!” Wendy says, incensed already by the proximity of Cartman, her skin flushing under her sweater. She groans as Cartman falls heavily into the seat beside her. He's still overweight, but doesn't much resemble the tub of lard that he was as a child. His father's football player genes finally did him some good in high school, when he shot up to six foot one and lost most of his baby fat.  
  
“That's adorable that your shriveled little Yale brain can't comprehend my superior Harvard logic,” Cartman says, grinning at her, sitting too close. He smells like food court pizza and rum.   
  
“How many times do I have to tell you, fat ass – I got into Harvard, too, I just decided I didn't want to go there because I figured that if they accepted a moron like you they weren't actually a reputable school!”  
  
Wendy has actually, grudgingly, come to accept that Cartman is very smart, though he's not smart in a way that she admires. He's calculating and devious and always working on how to promote himself and screw everyone else over. It irritated her to no end to watch girls actually start to fawn over him in high school after he had his growth spurt. They were so stupid, like lambs to the slaughter, and whenever she tried to warn freshmen girls away from him they just accused her of being jealous.   
  
“Hey, honey?” Cartman says, reaching out to tug on the uniform of a passing flight attendant. “I'm gonna need like, five of those little bottles of rum over here right away, plus about twenty of those little bags of trail mix, mmkay? _Thanks_.”   
  
“The snack and beverage service begins after take off, sir,” the flight attendant says. She glowers at Wendy as to accuse her of consorting with this asshole, and Wendy shakes her head back and forth, holding up her hands.   
  
“And here's a little something for _you_ ,” Cartman says, trying to be cute as he slips the flight attendant a fifty dollar bill. Wendy expects her to throw it back at him, and her mouth drops open when the flight attendant quickly tucks it into her pocket instead.  
  
“I'll be right back with your order, sir,” she says, hurrying down the aisle. Cartman gives Wendy a smug grin.   
  
“You just have to know how to handle these people,” he says. “They'll do anything if you dangle a little cash in front of their poor, working-class faces. Like Kenny. Is he still alive?”  
  
“I don't know,” Wendy says, trying to calm her rage – there's no point in telling Cartman that he's treating people like shit. He's perfectly aware and will never change. “As far as I know, he is – I think he lives in Florida now, since Butters goes to school down there.”   
  
“Oh, God, Butters and Kenny!” Cartman says, throwing his head back and cackling with glee. “Who saw that coming, huh? I'll tell you who did – me. Butters was always as gay as a three dollar hand job and Kenny will take hand outs from any pussy who offers them. You know what else I pretty much called from preschool? That other _special relationship_ that our childhood friends found with each other?”  
  
“Go ahead and get it out of the way,” Wendy says, glowering at the back of the seat in front her. In high school, Cartman loved nothing more than teasing Wendy about the fact that Stan left her for a boy. She got more shit about Stan's relationship with Kyle than Stan did.  
  
“Tell me, Wendy,” Cartman says, straightening up as if he's about to make a great oration. Wendy is sure that's what he thinks he's doing. “Does it put extra sand in your vagina to know that they're still together? That they live out in California with all the other queers, happy as two gay little clams, gardening and shopping at the farmer's market, spending lazy Sunday afternoons together in bed –”  
  
“Cartman, I swear to God.”  
  
“But I bet what _really_ bothers you is that you know that Stan is on top,” Cartman says, his pizza breath much too close to Wendy's face. “Since Kyle is pretty much more womanly than you are. Which means that basically all Stan needs in bed is an asshole to fuck, and you _had_ a perfectly good one of those back in high school, but maybe it just wasn't as satisfying as Kyle's –”   
  
“Excuse me!” Wendy says, waving her arms to get the flight attendant's attention. “Can I switch seats? This gentleman omits a foul odor that's making me nauseous.”   
  
“I'm sorry miss, but the flight is completely full,” the attendant says sharply, passing Cartman his trail mix and rum. “And I think he smells fine,” she says, shooting Cartman a smile that makes Wendy wince with disgust. Cartman winks at the woman, who is well into her fifties, and pats her on the ass as she walks away.  
  
“Thanks, sugar,” Cartman says, screwing off the top on one of his rum bottles.  
  
“Congratulations,” Wendy says as she watches him gulp rum from the bottle. “You've managed to remain the most disgusting person on the planet for almost twenty years. Well done.”   
  
“Ah, Wendy,” Cartman says, smiling at her, and she knows what's coming. “That's not really an unbroken record in your opinion, now is it? You didn't always find me disgusting.”   
  
Very unfortunately, Wendy has had several moments of pure insanity regarding Cartman in the past. Once was when they were nine years old, and the other incident happened a year after Stan broke up with her. It was a party at the start of summer after their junior year, and Stan was there with Kyle. The two of them were kissing and nuzzling and doing all of the obnoxious shit that they never seem to stop doing, and though Wendy was over Stan at that point, she wasn't over the humiliation of the way he'd left her. She had way too much to drink and somehow ended up in Clyde Donovan's parents' bed with Cartman's head between her legs, receiving what is still, embarrassingly, the best oral sex she's ever had in her life. Cartman's technique was noisy and sloppy and at one point he unceremoniously thrust a finger into her and started fucking her with it like he was mashing the button on a video game controller, and for some reason this lead to the most intense orgasm she'd ever had in her life. She was so completely satisfied that when Cartman knelt up over her afterward, presenting his cock so she could return the favor, she opened wide and didn't even think about spitting.   
  
“My judgment was compromised when that happened,” Wendy says, muttering. “You totally took advantage of me.”  
  
“If by 'took advantage' you mean gave you the greatest pleasure you've ever known, then yes, I took advantage of you,” Cartman says. He's so intensely proud of the memory, Wendy can feel it, and her cheeks burn. She really, really wishes that she hadn't screamed his name when she came.   
  
“So tell me, how is Yale's male student population, you know, as lovers?” Cartman asks. “I'm sure you've had most of them by now.”  
  
Wendy doesn't dignify this with a response, burying her nose in her book and pretending that she'll be able to ignore him. She's actually only had sex with one boy in her year and a half at Yale, and he wasn't very good, especially when it came to oral sex. She tries not to think about how often she has to turn to her vibrator to get off, and how often her fantasies return to that night when Cartman made her spine melt. It was something about the _wrongness_ of allowing his grimy hands on her, that's all.  
  
After the plane takes off, Cartman begins detailing his accomplishments at Harvard – straight A's, of course, secret societies, naturally, a shot at editing the school paper in the spring, why not? – and Wendy unbuckles her seatbelt as soon as it's allowed. Cartman refuses to budge, making her climb over him on her way to the bathroom, and Wendy's cheeks blaze when their eyes meet as she's straddled over his lap.   
  
“Try not to run through the plane's entire supply of toilet paper while you're mopping up the evidence of how wet that just made you,” Cartman says as she stumbles into the aisle. Wendy's hands are in fists as she heads toward the bathroom, mostly because he's right. She _is_ wet, from the memory of that night at Clyde's house and from something about the filthy virility of him. She's never met a man who is so full of shit and yet so often manages to live up to the bullshit that he spouts. It's fucking – _attractive_ , and she hates that, because she's too smart to fall for his shit, no matter how many other people buy into it.   
  
Wendy is closing the door to one of the plane's two restrooms when someone's hand flattens against it, and she rolls her eyes when she sees that it's Cartman.   
  
“Seriously?” she says. “You're not even going to let me go to the fucking bathroom in peace? I know you get off on annoying me, but Jesus fucking Christ.”  
  
“Don't pretend you actually need to go to the bathroom,” Cartman says, and it's true, she doesn't, she just needed to get away from him for a minute. “We both know why you came back here.”  
  
“We do?”  
  
“Obviously, you want to join the mile high club with me,” Cartman says. He squeezes into the tiny restroom, barely fitting into it himself and leaving little room for her. Wendy stands on the lid of the closed toilet, not sure why she's allowing this as she watches Cartman latch the door. Her heart is hammering, and her underwear are soaking wet as Cartman presses her against the wall of the restroom. He's just so fucking _big_ , and not just in bone structure and height; she remembers how her lips strained to fit around his fat cock, and how good that had felt.  
  
“You'd better have a fucking condom,” she says, and Cartman smirks.   
  
“You know it, bitch,” he says, pulling one from his pocket. “Wouldn't want any nasty Yale strains of herpes infesting my pristine dick.”  
  
“This is exactly what I need,” Wendy says, trying to maintain control of the situation. “That time at Clyde's house was a fluke. I bet you're a terrible lay, and once I know that for sure, you won't even have the power to annoy me anymore. I'll just feel sorry for you.”  
  
“Bitch, don't even,” Cartman says, working on the front of his pants. “I'm the one who'll feel sorry for you when you're banging on my door begging to have this big boy in you again.”  
  
Even the fact that he calls his dick a _big boy_ is hot, and that's so wrong, but everything that's wrong about this is what has Wendy shoving down her underwear and wrapping her arms around Cartman's neck as he hoists her up, propping her against the wall. They're both breathing hard, unsmiling, their eyes locked like this is a staring contest, too.  
  
“Bet you can't make me come,” Wendy says, panting the words out. Cartman sniffs out a laugh.  
  
“Bet I can make you scream my name again,” he says, holding her up with one hand under her ass while he rolls the condom on with the other. “Don't think I've forgotten how amazingly whorish you sounded that night – 'ahhh, Eric, ohh, _Eric_!'”  
  
Wendy opens her mouth to offer a retort, but whatever words she might have come up with are swallowed up as Cartman slides into her, even thicker than he felt when he was in her mouth. She gasps and clings tighter, feeling as if she's dangling by a string while he sinks in deeper, breathing hard near her ear. He doesn't smell like pizza now so much as his own sweat, which calls to mind all the things he was made from: a massive professional athlete and a woman who was unabashedly in love with sex, a random encounter at a dirty barn dance, a level of raunchiness that approached art. Wendy hears herself pushing out very undignified moans and doesn't even care, just tilts her hips to get him in deeper as his hands squeeze more tightly around her thighs.   
  
“Fuck yeah, so wet for me,” Cartman says, his voice a low rumble in her ear. “Ngh – yeah – you like that, slut? Want it harder?”  
  
“Fuck, yes,” Wendy moans, out of her mind. She can't believe how good he feels, how much she likes this, but her incredulity is part of why it's so hot, why she couldn't and can't get this from anyone else.  
  
Cartman gives her the hard thrusts she wants for just a few seconds, then begins grinding his hips against her so that his stomach is rubbing hard against her clit. Wendy groans and pulls his hair, which makes him grunt and snap his hips like a warning.   
  
“Like that?” he whispers, and she nods, so close, trying to open her legs wider, but they're already pulled apart as far as this tiny room will allow, one foot braced against the restroom mirror and the other against the door.  
  
“Hey,” Cartman says, and suddenly his face is pressed against hers. Wendy opens her eyes with some effort. She's panting, throbbing, so ready to come. Cartman is frowning, and for one awful moment she's afraid he'll laugh at her and leave her like this, unfulfilled.  
  
“We never – that night,” he says, his eyebrows softening. “At Clyde's house. We didn't kiss.”  
  
Wendy is so out of it that it takes her a second to realize what's happening. All of the insecurity that made it so hard for her to believe it when Cartman prevailed over other people floods back into his features, and he's so deep inside her that she can feel it when he swallows heavily.  
  
“Eric,” she says, chiding him for being concerned with this now, when she's right on the edge, though it's also kind of sweet. She moans as she presses her lips against his, and isn't surprised when he licks into her mouth with all the enthusiasm and surprising skill that made her come that night in Clyde's parents' bed. It's tender, then hungry, then soft, and when Cartman's hips start working again Wendy sobs with relief. She shifts forward to meet his thrusts as well as she can, and when she comes she doesn't scream his name, just whispers it, going limp in his arms.   
  
“Good girl,” Cartman says, mouthing at her neck. “My good, good girl.” Just saying this seems to pull him over the edge, and he whines when he comes, which makes her laugh and squeeze around him more tightly.  
  
They're both sweat-soaked, breathing hard, and when Cartman lifts his face to hers and gives her a cautious look, Wendy doesn't hesitate to kiss him. Cartman pushes what sounds like a sigh of relief into her mouth, and she strokes his hair, because she's relieved, too. Every brush of his tongue against hers tells her that he knows what he's doing, and that he's only going to use it to make her feel good, no ulterior motives involved.  
  
Wendy goes back to their seats first, hoping to be inconspicuous, but she gets quite a few looks on her way there. She's very obviously sex-flushed, her hair mussed and her skirt askew, but she doesn't really care what these people on their way to Denver for the holidays think. She sinks into her chair, her muscles loose and her smile goofy, and feels like she could sleep for days. Cartman is there soon afterward, clearing his throat and sneaking nervous looks at her. Wendy just shows him her dazed smile and reaches over to touch his arm.  
  
“This week is going to be kind of stressful for me,” she says. “Between my parents and seeing all of our old friends – you know how it is. Um, would you be willing to, like. Be my stress relief? Because, Jesus. I give up. You win. That was fucking – worth embarrassing myself for.”   
  
She waits for Cartman to come up with some biting retort, or ask her to pay for each 'stress relief' session, or call her a slut. He just fidgets uncomfortably for a moment, then gives her the most heart-wrenchingly vulnerable look that she's ever seen on anyone, the kind of thing that he would have hidden from her if he could.  
  
“That would be totally awesome,” he says, so softly that she reaches up to touch his still-chubby cheek as reassurance. Cartman grins, actually _blushes_ , and passes her one of his rum bottles, which she downs in three gulps.  
  
IV.  
  
Every year, Clyde hates this party and goes home feeling like shit, but every year he shows up with baked brie and a six pack of expensive beer. He's twenty-five years old now, and he still gets nervous while he waits for Bebe to pull open the door of her parents' house, where she hosts her annual New Year's Eve reunion of all of the kids from their graduating class. It's not that Clyde really cares what these people think of him much anymore, it's just that he gets so depressed being around all of the old couples that are somehow still together. He loved someone back in high school, too, and never got so much as a pity kiss.   
  
Here they all are, as Bebe accepts the brie and leads him inside: Stan and Kyle by the spiked punch, grabbing each other's belt loops as they lean together to whisper some inside joke, both of their faces red with laughter, Kenny sitting on the hearth by the fire, Butters tucked between his knees and telling Token and Jimmy some inane story while Kenny smoothes Butters' static-filled hair down, and strangest of all, Cartman and Wendy in the kitchen, Wendy hugely pregnant and Cartman bragging to Craig that they're expecting twins.   
  
“My sperm is pretty much top notch,” Cartman says, twirling the scotch in his glass while Craig stares at him, expressionless, a beer at his hip. “I wouldn't be surprised if we get triplets next time.”   
  
“Clyde!” Wendy says, ignoring Cartman and waddling over to give Clyde an awkward hug, her stomach in the way. “I'm so glad you came,” she says. “How've you been?”  
  
“Oh, pretty good,” Clyde says, trying not to look at Craig while he passes Bebe the beers so she can put them in the cooler. He can't help it, but it doesn't matter, because Craig is just staring into space as usual, taking pulls from his beer that make the back of Clyde's neck hot. Craig never caught Clyde looking at him in high school, because he was never looking in Clyde's direction.  
  
“Are you still in Denver?” Wendy asks.   
  
“Yep,” Clyde says, helping himself to one of the beers that he brought. He looks around for an opener, and nearly drops the bottle when Craig reaches over to take it from him, flicking it open with a gadget on his key chain before handing it back. Clyde gapes at him, too dumbfounded to remember to say _thank you_ while Craig stares back at him. Craig looks completely unaffected, as usual.  
  
“Craig's in Denver, too,” Wendy says, reaching over to squeeze Craig's shoulder. “We were just talking about that, actually – he designs restaurant interiors, and apparently a bunch of great new places are opening up in that little Larimer Street district. Me and Eric were thinking of checking some out before we leave town.”   
  
“Yeah, um,” Clyde says, as nervous around Craig as he was when they were fourteen. “I – um, haven't been going out to eat that often lately –”  
  
“You're in real estate, aren't you?” Cartman says.   
  
“Yeah. Mostly commercial properties, some residential – ”  
  
“Well, that explains why you can't afford to eat out,” Cartman says, and Wendy glares at him.   
  
“Real estate is picking up again,” she says, elbowing him. Cartman scoffs.  
  
“Yeah, if by 'picking up' you mean 'limping along like a one legged dog.'”  
  
“But I'm sure Clyde's doing fine,” Wendy says, giving Cartman a pointed look. He seems to miss it, digging into the baked brie with abandon. Clyde vividly remembers getting their wedding invitation in the mail and laughing for probably twenty minutes before calling up Craig to see if he knew who had sent out the gag invitations.   
  
“I'm doing alright,” Clyde says. He gets by, living alone in a penthouse apartment that his company is trying to sell, trying not to disturb any of the showroom settings or leave too much evidence that someone actually lives there around, though it's not like he actually has interested customers to show it to very often.  
  
“Do you guys ever run into each other in the city?” Wendy asks, looking from Clyde to Craig, who shakes his head.   
  
“Craig's a busy guy,” Clyde says, trying to look cheerful about this. “He doesn't have time to hang out with us South Park hicks.”   
  
Craig rolls his eyes and drinks from his beer. Wendy laughs, then seems to sense awkwardness and walks over to Bebe, offering to help her carry the brie and some other snacks into the living room. Cartman moves along with the brie, still eating it while it's in transit, leaving Craig and Clyde in the kitchen together.   
  
“What are you drinking?” Clyde asks.  
  
“Beer,” Craig says, and Clyde snorts.  
  
“I know, I mean – ”  
  
Craig holds out the label so that Clyde can read it: Red Stripe. That's so like Craig, just obscure enough to be hip but not trying too hard, still the kind of thing that could be grabbed from a gas station convenience store's cooler on the way to the party. Clyde nods and sips from his own fancy Belgian pilsner, something that he hoped would be impressive when he picked it out at the store. Ever since they were kids, Craig has been effortlessly cool and Clyde has struggled to keep up. The only time he ever felt confident at school was when the girls convinced him that he was good-looking so that they could scam free shoes from his dad's store.   
  
“I'm surprised you come to these things,” Clyde says as Craig continues to stare at him like he's a praying mantis on a brick wall, vaguely interesting but not remotely threatening.  
  
“Why?” Craig asks.   
  
“'Cause you're so. I don't know.”   
  
“I'm so what?”  
  
“It just seems like you'd have somewhere more exciting to be on New Year's Eve,” Clyde says, embarrassed for trying to articulate it. Craig looks good, too cool for this crowd in his artfully beat up jeans and tight flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He's wearing a knit hat not unlike the one he wore as a kid, complete with ironically stylish tassels.   
  
“What gives you the idea that I like excitement?” Craig asks.   
  
“Oh, right, I forgot,” Clyde says. “You're too cool to even care about having fun.”   
  
Craig smirks and looks away, like he's a joke that Clyde doesn't get. Clyde thinks about storming out of the kitchen, but there's no one out in the living room that he really wants to talk to. He only comes to these parties to see Craig.  
  
“Look at Stan and Kyle,” Craig says, and Clyde does, through the doorway that leads into the living room. Stan is telling Kyle something, his mouth close to Kyle's ear and his hand cupped around Kyle's hip, casual but possessive. Kyle is smiling, then blushing hard. He gives Stan a scandalized look that makes Stan grin and kiss the tip of Kyle's nose.  
  
“Who didn't see that coming?” Craig says with a snort. He drinks from his beer again and stares at Clyde as if he's daring him to disagree.  
  
“I'm surprised they're still together,” Clyde says. “Butters and Kenny, too. And fucking Cartman and Wendy? Don't you ever think it's weird that so many of our classmates stayed together after school?”  
  
“Not really,” Craig says.   
  
“Why not? That doesn't happen that often, okay? It's, like, a rare thing.”  
  
“It's a South Park thing,” Craig says. “There's something about this place that can't be explained. You have to stick with someone who understands.”   
  
“You didn't,” Clyde says. His chest feels tight, and the noise from the living room seems very far away. Craig sighs and puts his beer on the counter top.  
  
“Not by choice.”   
  
“What?”  
  
“I said not by –”  
  
“I heard what you you said,” Clyde says, starting to get angry, or maybe just terrified, because Craig is walking toward him. “But what – what does that mean? You were in love with Tweek, weren't you? I knew it.”  
  
Craig rolls his eyes. “Please,” he says.   
  
“Who then?” Clyde asks. He's starting to shake. Craig has always had this way of staring at him that bores right through him, and Clyde always assumed that it was because Craig wasn't really seeing him.  
  
“Let me try that,” Craig says, taking the beer from Clyde's hand. He keeps his eyes locked on Clyde's while he drinks from it, then wipes his lips with the back of his hand before giving it back. He shrugs.   
  
“Do you like it?” Clyde asks, the question trembling a little on his tongue. Craig is so, so fucking cute, and it makes Clyde feel as helpless as it did when they were teenagers.   
  
“Yeah,” Craig says. He licks his lips. “It's good.”   
  
“Hey fellas!” Butters says, the sound of his voice making Clyde literally jump backward. Butters is in the doorway, beaming at them obliviously. “We're gonna play charades! C'mon, you guys can be on my team!”  
  
Clyde expects Craig to blow Butters off and call him a dork, but he heads into the living room, leaving Clyde alone and stunned in the kitchen. He'd actually managed to convince himself that he was about to get kissed, just because Craig liked his beer. He's got to stop coming to these parties, to give up this fucking ghost. Craig probably had a crush on Bebe back in high school, the one girl who Clyde actually managed to get. That would achieve a level of sick irony appropriate for Clyde's pathetic life.  
  
Charades seems to go on for hours, and when Bebe begins passing out glasses of champagne for the midnight toast, Clyde realizes that it has. People start splitting out of the charades groups and pairing up in preparation for their New Year's Eve kisses. Stan pulls Kyle into a corner near a window with a view of the falling snow, Kenny yanks a giggling Butters into his lap on the couch, and Cartman wraps Wendy into a hug, humping her from behind as he rubs a hand over her belly. Others pair up more haphazardly, for old times sake: Patty and Jimmy, Bebe and Token, Bradley and some girl whose name Clyde can't even remember. It will be the same depressing display as it is every year: everybody getting kissed except for Clyde, Craig ignoring the countdown and gulping beer instead of champagne, then a lot of drunken singing of that one New Year's song that nobody really knows the words to.  
  
“Alright, everybody!” Bebe says, lifting her glass. “Ten seconds to midnight! Let's get the countdown started!”  
  
“Ten!” Butters shouts, making everybody laugh before they join in. Clyde just mutters the numbers under his breath, thinking about how many people here will fly out of Colorado tomorrow, done with visiting their families and ready to get back to another year of their happy lives together. Clyde will just drive back to his empty penthouse tonight, drink a few more beers and fall asleep on the floor near the giant windows that look down on the city that he hasn't been able to bring himself to leave behind, because Craig lives down there somewhere, among the far away lights that line the streets.  
  
“Hey,” someone says when the countdown reaches _Three_ , Kenny already molesting Butters into an open-mouthed kiss on the couch. Clyde turns from that somewhat disturbing sight to see Craig standing behind him, his knit hat pulled back a bit, messy black bangs poking out beneath it.  
  
“What?” Clyde says. Behind them, the countdown reaches _One!_ and the cheering begins, quickly muffled to laughter by kisses. Craig grins.   
  
“You, dumbass,” Craig says. “Why do you think I come to this thing? It was you.”  
  
Clyde opens his mouth to protest or get clarification or just curse with disbelief at the idea that Craig could have wanted him all along, but Craig doesn't give him the chance to do any of that. He puts his hands on Clyde's hips and tugs him forward gently, pressing his beer-flavored lips to Clyde's. Clyde closes his eyes and pulls Craig closer, his arms winding around Craig's neck as their mouths open and the kiss deepens. Craig is a surprisingly timid, uncertain kisser, so Clyde takes the lead, licking into him until he whimpers a little.  
  
By the time they realize that everyone in the room has gone quiet and is staring at them, Craig has lifted his leg for Clyde to hold against his hip, and they've crashed back against a bookcase, rattling Bebe's parents' china figurines. Clyde pulls back when he notices the silence of the room, panting and holding Craig's lust-blown gaze for a moment before turning to face everyone else.  
  
“What?” Clyde barks. “We're not allowed to hump in public like you guys do?”  
  
Kenny starts laughing first, then Butters, Wendy, Stan and Kyle, and all the rest, Cartman practically falling to the floor with amusement. Craig is blushing, tucking himself in a little closer to Clyde's chest as if to hide there. Clyde kisses Craig's red cheeks, grinning. He never really thought about how Craig is a little shorter and a good deal thinner than him, never considered how good just holding him would feel.  
  
“I've got a penthouse if you want to get out of here,” Clyde says, and Craig raises his eyebrows, actually looks impressed.  
  
“Okay,” he says. “But. One sec.”   
  
Craig leans in and they kiss again, letting everyone watch, having their turn at last.


	5. Good Times with Alcohol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get drunk together for the first time, and shit gets real.

  
Kenny is the one who supplies the booze, two bottles of cheap vodka and some beers he scammed from his parents. Cartman is their host, his mother out of town with some new boyfriend. Stan brings pizza and Kyle supplies the mixers: orange juice, Coke, and Gatorade. They set everything up in Cartman's living room, all of them giggling stupidly in anticipation of what they're about to get away with. Kenny has gotten fucked up plenty of times before, but never with these guys, his childhood friends, and he's been pretty excited about this since they started planning it last week.  
  
“Make sure you eat a lot so you'll have plenty on your stomach,” Kenny says as they open up the pizza boxes.  
  
“Like you need to tell Cartman to eat a lot,” Kyle says.  
  
“Kyle, shut your Jew mouth,” Cartman says, still piling pizza onto his plate. “If any of you lightweight assholes pukes on my carpet I'll kill you.”   
  
“Dude, sick,” Stan says, wincing after drinking from his plastic cup full of Gatorade and vodka. “You made these too strong, Kenny.”   
  
“What the hell are you complaining about?” Kenny asks. “Vodka doesn't have a taste.”   
  
“Yeah, it does,” Kyle says. “It tastes like – burning.”   
  
“Whatever, you fucking pussies,” Cartman says. “Tastes fine to me.” He coughs a little after taking a big gulp, and Kenny grins.  
  
They settle in to play video games, polishing off the pizza and sipping from their cups, getting progressively worse at the games and more prone to idiotic laughter as they drink more and more. Kenny is pretty buzzed, but he can tell after three drinks that the others are closer to stone cold wasted. Kyle keeps trying to tell the story about the time he dared Ike to run naked through their parents' cocktail party, but he's laughing too hard to get much out. Stan is laughing, too, clapping Kyle on the back.   
  
“You guys are such fags,” Cartman says. He's lying on the ground beside Kenny, the video game controller resting on his stomach.   
  
“Fuck you,” Stan says, still laughing. He throws a couch pillow at Cartman. Cartman grunts as it bounces off of him, and arches back to glare at Stan.  
  
“God, look at you guys,” he says, and Kenny looks up from the drink he was mixing to glance at Stan and Kyle. Stan has his elbow propped on Kyle's back, and Kyle's arm is tossed across Stan's lap. They're both staring at Cartman as if they have no idea what he's talking about.   
  
“What about us?” Kyle asks.  
  
“What about you? Are you kidding me? Why don't you just fuck each other already and let us all off the hook? Seriously, the will-they won't-they routine is so played out.”  
  
“Just because you don't have a super best friend,” Stan says, pointing at Cartman, slurring his words. “Don't rain on our fucking parade.”  
  
“Yeah,” Kyle says, and he actually leans closer to Stan. They must be really drunk; usually they jump apart and start stammering excuses when someone teases them for their tendency to gravitate together.  
  
“What does that mean exactly?” Kenny asks. “Super best friends?” It's a term they've used to describe their relationship for years.  
  
“It's a me and Kyle thing,” Stan says with a wave of his hand, his other arm sliding around Kyle's shoulders. “You wouldn't understand.”  
  
“Oh, God,” Cartman says. “They're already fucking.”  
  
“We are not!” Kyle says, the blush finally arriving on his cheeks.   
  
“That's almost sad,” Cartman says. “Both of you fags want it so fucking badly, why the hell have you held off until now?”  
  
“Shut up, Cartman,” Stan says. His hand curls possessively around Kyle's shoulder. “You don't know what you're talking about.”  
  
“You do touch each other a lot,” Kenny says.   
  
“What?” Stan says, glowering. “Like when?”  
  
“Uh. Like now?”  
  
Stan looks over at Kyle, and giggles stupidly when he sees that his arm is locked around his super best friend. Kyle gives him a sheepish smile, wilting a little. He looks like he wants to be kissed, his cheeks still red.  
  
“God!” Cartman says, covering his face with his hands. “My fucking eyes. You two are sick.”  
  
“Kiss him,” Kenny says, because Cartman is right. Stan and Kyle are idiots to have waited this long. They both look at Kenny with surprise.   
  
“What?” Stan says.  
  
“Kiss him. Just try it. If you hate it, fine. But you should at least give it a try.”  
  
“No way, dude!” Kyle says. “I'm not letting Cartman watch us – kiss!”   
  
“I'm not looking!” Cartman shouts, his hands still over his face. “I don't want to see that shit!”  
  
“I do,” Kenny says, grinning. Stan is just staring at him, open-mouthed, looking adorably confused. “Come on. Try it.”  
  
“You're drunk,” Kyle says, waving his hand at Kenny.  
  
“So? That doesn't mean I'm wrong. Kiss him, Stan. Just do it.”  
  
“Stop –” Kyle tries to say, cut off when Stan's lips crash against his. Kenny cracks up when he sees Kyle's eyes shoot open wide, Stan just hovering in front of Kyle's face with his lips still pursed, turning an ever brighter shade of red than Kyle.   
  
“Oh, sick, are they actually doing it?” Cartman asks, taking his hands away to look.   
  
“Shut the fuck up,” Kenny says, giving Cartman a kick in the side. Kyle and Stan are staring at each other, lips parted, chests heaving.   
  
“I'm sorry,” Stan says to Kyle, his voice cracking, still slurred. “I just love you.”  
  
“Oh,” Kyle says, softly. He grabs Stan's ears and starts kissing him hard, using his tongue, his eyes pinched shut. Stan moans and pulls Kyle into his arms, then into his lap, still kissing him.   
  
“Aw, sick!” Cartman complains. “I will not allow these faggy shenanigans in my house!”  
  
“Dude, shut up, seriously,” Kenny says, kicking him again.  
  
“Stop kicking me, Kenny!”  
  
“Just – uh.” Kenny glances over at Stan and Kyle, who are both moaning now, Kyle's hips beginning to twitch as Stan licks into him. “Let them have their moment.”  
  
“No, he's right,” Kyle says, panting when he pulls back. “We can't – this is crazy.”  
  
“Yeah,” Stan agrees, and he pulls Kyle back down for a hungry kiss. Kyle moans and opens his mouth for Stan's tongue, pulling at Stan's hair and grinding against him.   
  
“For fuck's sake,” Cartman says. “I'm calling the police.”  
  
“You are not,” Kenny says, laughing. “You know who you should call? Butters.” Watching Stan and Kyle make out is making Kenny want to see his crush of the moment. He never could have predicted falling for sweet, innocent little Butters, but it happened, and he's embarrassed about it, but that doesn't change the fact that he wants to tenderly instruct Butters in the finer points of sex.  
  
“Butters, yeah,” Cartman says, chuckling. “We should get fucking Butters drunk.”  
  
“Oh, dude,” Kenny says, grinning. “That would be hilarious.”  
  
“Totally. Okay, I'm calling him. Stan, Kyle – keep being the gayest fucking gaywads in the history of gay sex, mmkay?”  
  
Stan and Kyle don't look up, just keep kissing, their breathing getting so hard that Kenny's beginning to wonder if they're about to blow their loads in their pants. He tries to check their laps for erections but can't see anything with Kyle moving his hips like that.  
  
“God, I love you,” Stan says, petting Kyle when he arches to get a better angle for rubbing himself on Stan. “Ky – Kyle, you're perfect, you're the best person in the world.”  
  
Kyle laughs. “I'm so drunk,” he says before leaning in to kiss Stan again. “But I – I've loved you since we were kids. The first time I beat off, I thought about you –”  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Stan says, whispering, his hands kneading Kyle's ass. “Me, too.”  
  
“Keep the gay sex sounds to a minimum while I'm on the phone,” Cartman shouts. “Though, actually, it's Butters, so that might be an incentive – Heyyyy, Butters, it's Eric!”  
  
Butters arrives just ten minutes later, when Stan and Kyle have moved from frantic humping to lazy nuzzling, giggling against each other's lips between sips from their freshly mixed drinks. Kenny is still serving as bartender, and he mixes a strong one up for Butters as Butters stands gaping at Stan and Kyle.  
  
“You can have that much fun, too, once you're drunk,” Kenny says, winking at Butters when he hands him the drink. He feels like an asshole, corny and obnoxious. Only Butters has ever made him feel awkward when making attempts at seduction. Usually it comes easily to him. Butters gives Kenny a slightly frightened look, holding his cup and not drinking from it.  
  
“Butters, did you bring that stuff I told you to bring?” Cartman asks. He's drinking more, too, beginning to wobble in his steps as he walks toward them.  
  
“Y-yeah, Eric, I did,” Butters says, lifting a duffel bag that he's carrying.  
  
“What stuff?” Kenny asks.  
  
“Oh – nothing.” Cartman grins evilly. “Drink up, Butters! You've got some catching up to do.”   
  
Butters takes a deep breath, gives Kenny a nervous look, and drinks. He winces, and it goes right to Kenny's dick.  
  
“Geez, fellas,” he says. “Are you sure we should be doing this?”  
  
“Butters, relax!” Kyle calls from the couch. “Everything's fine, everything's great.” He's rubbing his face against Stan's cheek as he says so, and Stan looks so dreamy and happy and satisfied that there's no way he hasn't already come in his pants.  
  
“It's okay,” Kenny says, unable to stop himself from reaching over to squeeze Butters' shoulder. “It's just a way to unwind a little.”  
  
“Unwind, heh,” Cartman says, laughing and drinking more.   
  
They watch Butters play video games for awhile, cracking up whenever his character dies. Butters laughs, too, but more uncertainly, even as he finishes his second strong drink. Kenny is past having a buzz and on into floaty, hazy territory now, Cartman is boneless on the floor, red-faced with hysterical laughter, and Stan is mesmerized by stroking Kyle's hair as Kyle sleeps with his head on Stan's shoulder.  
  
“Butters, do your trick now,” Cartman says, wagging one fat finger in Butters' direction. “Do it, c'mon, show everyone.”  
  
“Ah-- I don't know, Eric,” Butters says, rubbing his fists together. “I feel all – weird and sleepy.”  
  
“That's just the alcohol,” Cartman says. “That will make your trick even better!”  
  
“What trick?” Kenny asks, a nervous feeling bristling at the base of his spine. He's always been jealous of Cartman's ability to manipulate Butters – or maybe jealous isn't the right word. It's always bothered him.  
  
“Alright, if you think I should,” Butters says. He stands up on wobbly legs, almost toppling over, and Kenny hurries to catch him. Cartman cracks up, punching the floor with his fist.  
  
“Give him another drink,” he says. “Me too, goddammit, Kenny, whatt'm I paying you for?”  
  
Butters disappears into the bathroom with his duffel bag, and Kenny's sense of unease grows as Cartman continues to laugh wickedly, practically rolling around on the floor. Kyle wakes up with a moan, rubbing at his eyes and groping around for his drink, which Stan pushes into his hand.   
  
“Was Butters here?” Kyle asks, all three words slurring together. Stan laughs and kisses his forehead.  
  
“Yeah, dude. He's gonna do a trick or something.”   
  
“That's gay,” Kyle says, mumbling, slumped against Stan's shoulder again.  
  
“You're gay,” Cartman says.   
  
“Ya think?” Stan says.  
  
The bathroom door opens, just a crack, as if Butters isn't sure he wants to come out. Cartman bolts upright, suddenly wide awake, grinning.   
  
“Butters,” Cartman says. “Are you all ready to do your trick for us?”  
  
“This is starting to give me the creeps,” Kenny says. Butters is still hiding behind the door, and Kenny can practically hear him rubbing his little fists together anxiously.  
  
“Shut up, Kenny, it's awesome.” Cartman scrambles up from the floor and dashes over to the stereo. “Alright, Butters, I'm starting the music!”  
  
“The music?” Stan says with a snort.   
  
“E-Eric, I don't know if I can –”  
  
“Butters, don't be such a pussy. Get out here!”  
  
The door opens slowly, and Kenny sits forward, curious now. The music Cartman turned on is some cheesy pop song, fast-paced and turned up obnoxiously loud. The first thing that emerges from the bathroom is Butters' hand, then his arm, which is bare, and his shoulder, hip, leg, and his head. He's hugging the door, chewing his lip, and blushing brightly, wearing a flimsy white sun dress and a long blond wig that's tied into pigtails with green bows.   
  
“I forgot the shoes,” he says sheepishly, and only then does Kenny's gaze drop down to Butters' legs. He's wearing pale blue knee socks, his toes curling inside them. Cartman is laughing hard, Stan and Kyle are gaping in surprise, and Kenny is halfway hard in his pants. Butters looks fucking adorable.  
  
“Jesus Christ, man,” Stan says.   
  
“Stan?” Kyle says.   
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Am I drunk, or is Butters wearing a dress?”  
  
“He's totally wearing a dress, dude.”  
  
“Butters,” Kenny says, almost inaudibly, but Butters must hear, because he looks at Kenny, his eyes shining with embarrassed tears.  
  
“What are you waiting for, bitch?” Cartman says. “The music's going. Show them your trick!”  
  
“Ah – I don't know –”  
  
“Do it, Butters, or I'll kick your ass!”  
  
Butters takes a deep breath and walks further into the room. Kenny has never before noticed how feminine his shoulders are, and even the way he walks. It's not swishy or obvious, just sort of delicate, especially in his socked feet. He's up on his tip toes, hugging his elbows. It's way too cold out to be wearing so little clothing, even with the heat blasting.  
  
“I don't think he wants to do it, Cartman,” Stan says when Butters just stands there shuffling his feet.  
  
“Yes, he does,” Cartman says, narrowing his eyes. “Go on, Butters, have another drink if you need it.”   
  
Butters sighs and lifts his arms into the air. He starts shaking his ass, dancing to the beat of the song, his eyes pinched shut. Cartman cracks up, falling backward onto the floor.   
  
“Ah, this is the best thing ever!” he declares.   
  
“Cartman you are so fucked up,” Kyle says.   
  
“Oh, c'mon, Kyle, you can't tell me this isn't hilarious! Butters, do the pole dancer move.”   
  
“But that one shows my underpants!” Butters protests, blushing hard.  
  
“Yeah, that's the whole point!”  
  
Kenny can't take it anymore. He's too drunk to put up with this shit like he usually does, sitting silently and watching Cartman get off on humiliating Butters. He stomps across the room and smacks the stop button on the stereo, cutting the music off.  
  
“Ey!” Cartman shouts. “What the hell are you doing, Kenny?”  
  
“Butters, come here,” Kenny says, unzipping his parka. Butters is frozen in mid-dance, looking shocked.   
  
“He stops dancing when I tell him to!” Cartman says, trying to get up, but he's too drunk. He falls onto his ass again, making Stan and Kyle laugh hysterically.   
  
“Come here, Butters,” Kenny says, more softly now, and Butters walks over to him, on his tip toes again. Kenny holds his parka open, afraid that Butters won't want this, either, but Butters whimpers gratefully and presses himself to Kenny's chest.   
  
“What the hell are you doing?” Cartman asks, on his back on the floor now, no longer even attempting to get up.   
  
“He's embarrassed, you asshole,” Kenny says. He zips the parka up so that Butters is hidden inside it, and Butters makes a tiny noise of appreciation, his face pressed to Kenny's neck. Kenny hopes Butters won't be offended by his very obvious erection, but he must not be, because he just wiggles in closer after brushing up against it, his arms locking around Kenny's back inside the parka.  
  
“God, why are all my friends such fags?” Cartman asks, directing the question up at the ceiling.  
  
“You're the one who's making a boy dress in drag for your pleasure,” Kyle says.  
  
“Fuck you, Kyle, it's funny!”  
  
“It's not funny, it's fucking creepy,” Stan says.  
  
“It's not creepy,” Kenny says when Butters cringes inside his parka. He leans down to kiss the top of Butters' head. “It's cute.”   
  
He can feel Butters' smile pressed against his collar bone, and his boner throbs when Butters rubs his stockinged leg against his. Butters must be pretty drunk, after all; he tips his head back to give Kenny a goofy smile, hiccuping.  
  
“Do you have your Mysterion costume with you?” Butters asks, whispering this loudly enough for everyone to hear.  
  
“No,” Kenny says, regretfully. “Why? You want me to play dress up with you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Butters admits, sheepish, his cheeks going red again. Cartman snorts.  
  
“I'd be into that,” Kenny says, walking Butters over to the couch. He sits down on the floor with his back to it, Butters tucked into his lap, still inside the parka.  
  
“You guys are fucking contagious,” Cartman says to Stan and Kyle, who are both starting to doze off, Kyle slumped down with his head on Stan's thigh. “Just keep your gay germs off of me.”  
  
“You probably are gay,” Kyle says. “That would explain a lot. You've never had a girlfriend.”  
  
“So? That doesn't mean I'm gay, you ignorant asshole! Maybe I just have high standards.”  
  
“Who do you like?” Stan asks.   
  
Cartman laughs. “Like I'm going to tell you assholes!”  
  
“We're you're friends, Eric!” Butters says. “We won't tell anyone.”   
  
“I bet Butters already knows,” Kyle says, smirking. “He knows all Cartman's secrets.”   
  
Butters shifts in Kenny's lap, and from the tiny smile that stretches onto his lips, Kenny can see that Kyle is right. Cartman gives Butters a look of hellfire.  
  
“Butters, if you tell them, I'll cut your balls off,” he says.   
  
“It's Wendy Testaburger!” Butters announces cheerfully. “Eric has been in love with her ever since she kissed him in fourth grade! And you will not cut my balls off, Eric! Mysterion won't let you.” He curls in closer to Kenny, who laughs and wraps his arms around Butters.   
  
“That's not Mysterion, you dumb shit, it's Kenny!” Cartman says, glaring at them.   
  
“Don't change the subject,” Stan says. “Are you really in love with Wendy?”  
  
“She'd never stop puking if she knew that you beat off to her,” Kyle says, laughing gleefully.  
  
“Fuck you guys!” Cartman says. “She kissed _me_ , remember? She's always wanted a piece of this, okay?   
  
“Then why haven't you made your move, dickweed?” Stan asks. “She's been single since she dumped Token last year.”   
  
“Just – fuck you guys!” Cartman says, visibly flustered. He actually manages to put himself up to a seated position, and begins to cast around frantically for his drink, spilling it in the process.  
  
“Goddammit!” he shouts, and Kyle cracks up, almost crying for how hard he's laughing.   
  
“Cartman, you should call Wendy and tell her how you feel,” Stan says, obviously trying to contain his laughter.   
  
“Yeah, Eric!” Butters says. “You're not as fat as you used to be – maybe she'll go out with you!”  
  
“Butters, I am going to kill you so fucking brutally,” Cartman says, closing his eyes.  
  
“No, you're not,” Kenny says. “Not unless you want my fist up your ass.”  
  
“Cartman probably does want that,” Kyle says, giggling.   
  
“No, no, I buy this, he loves Wendy!” Stan says. He's beaming now, trying to drink from his empty cup. “It makes sense. When I was dating her he was always trying to make me think she was cheating on me so that I'd break up with her.”   
  
“That's so pathetic, Cartman,” Kyle says.   
  
“Dude, you did the same thing,” Stan says.  
  
“No, I didn't! Well, okay, that one time, but I really thought she was!”  
  
“You should call her, Cartman,” Kenny says. “This is a night of honesty.”  
  
“It's a night of slobbering drunken bullshit!” Cartman says. “I'm not fucking calling her.”  
  
“Text her, then,” Stan says. “Seriously, I think you have a chance. When we dated, she was always complaining about you in this really obnoxious way. She's kind of preoccupied with you.”   
  
“That doesn't mean she wants him!” Kyle says defensively.   
  
“Sure it does,” Stan says, winking at Kyle, who grins. Kenny sighs; Cartman is an asshole, but he's not sure he wants to join in on this plot to humiliate him. He looks down at Butters and tugs on one of the green bows on his wig.  
  
“What do you think?” Kenny asks. “Should Cartman text Wendy and confess his love?”  
  
“It's not love!” Cartman shouts, beet red now. “It's just animal lust. God, you guys are so gay.”  
  
“It's love,” Butters whispers to Kenny. “He has the names picked out for their kids.”  
  
“Here,” Stan says, digging out his phone. “I've got her number on here – just tell me what to text.”   
  
“She'll think it's a prank if it comes from your phone,” Kyle says. “Use Cartman's.”  
  
“Everybody shut up!” Cartman says. Kenny waits for him to throw them out, or throw up from all the vodka he's downed, but he actually digs out his Blackberry, still blushing furiously.  
  
“Oh my God, he's doing it,” Kyle says, giggling.  
  
“Shh,” Stan says, holding up a hand. “Let him concentrate.”   
  
“What the hell should I say?” Cartman asks.   
  
“Tell her you think she's beautiful,” Butters says.   
  
“And smart,” Kyle says.  
  
“No way, I'm not fucking telling her she's smart!”  
  
“Why not? She is.”  
  
“Yeah, but I don't want her to get the fucking upper hand here!”  
  
“Look,” Stan says. “I'm gonna say something, but it can't leave this room.”   
  
“What?” Cartman asks, sitting up on his knees, his thumbs poised over his Blackberry keyboard.  
  
“Wendy really likes it when you talk dirty to her.”  
  
Kyle barely bites back his guffaw, covering his mouth with his hand.   
  
“I don't know, fellas,” Butters says. “She might not like that right off the bat.”   
  
“Sure she will,” Stan says, giving Butters a look to quiet him. “Trust me.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Cartman says, his chubby fingers flying. “You guys, listen: 'hey testicle burger, if you are hungry for a late night snack, I have one in my pants that I could give to you.'”  
  
“Oh, geez!” Butters says, clutching at Kenny's t-shirt inside the parka.  
  
“She'll love it,” Stan says. “Send.”  
  
Kyle is laughing so hard that he has to bury his face against Stan's back in a sorry attempt to hide it. Cartman doesn't even notice, his tongue poking from between his lips as he contemplates his message.  
  
“Tell her in a PS that she's beautiful and smart and that you want her to have your children,” Kenny says, snorting when he sees Cartman's fingers snap back into action.   
  
“You're not actually typing that, are you?” Stan asks.   
  
“No, no, you're right, Kenny, that balances out the tone,” Cartman says. “Okay. Sent.”  
  
“Are you fucking kidding?” Kyle says, barely getting the words out for how hard he's laughing. “Did he actually send it? Stan get his phone, look at the sent messages.”  
  
“Look all you want,” Cartman says, tossing the Blackberry to Stan. “This is gonna work. I have a good feeling.”  
  
“Me, too!” Butters says. He nuzzles at Kenny's neck, licking him a little, making his boner pop back into existence. Kenny wants to kiss him properly, but not in front of these guys. He wants it to be special, so he just holds Butters as tight as he can, pushing two fingers inside one of his knee socks to tickle his calf.  
  
“God, he actually fucking sent it,” Stan says, looking kind of queasy as he reads the screen of Cartman's Blackberry. Kyle is still laughing, beginning to cough for breath.  
  
“Oh, God,” Kyle says, wiping at his eyes. “This is the best night ever.”  
  
They all fall asleep soon after that, Stan and Kyle curled up together on the couch, Kenny on the floor with Butters still zipped inside his jacket, and Cartman in an armchair, snoring loud enough to wake Kenny up several times during the night. He doesn't mind so much, though he can already feel his hangover looming. Waking up gives him an excuse to admire Butters, who has ditched the wig and is sleeping soundly against Kenny's chest.  
  
Morning comes and they ignore it, groaning at the light that seeps in through the living room windows. Kenny's head has begun to pound, and Butters is moaning softly as if he's suffering the same fate, the pained little noises he's making going straight to Kenny's morning wood. None of them even gets up to piss, they all just wallow in their last moments of fitful sleep, not wanting to face the aftermath of cheap vodka and cheaper beer.  
  
Around noon, someone starts pounding on the door. Kenny sits up on his elbow with a groan, and Kyle and Stan begin to rouse on the couch, both of them making miserable noises as they rub the sleep from their eyes. Butters wakes up when Kenny sits up, tugging Butters with him, still hiding him inside his parka. Finally, Cartman sits up and glares at the door.   
  
“Open up, asshole!” someone shouts. “I know you're in there!”  
  
It's Wendy. Blearily, the events of the previous night resurface in Kenny's mind: Stan and Kyle's dry-humping confession, Butters doing his little dance, Cartman sending that apocalyptic text. Kenny can't remember exactly what it said now, but it was something about the fact that Cartman wants Wendy to be the mother of his children. He may or may not have also asked her to blow him.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Cartman moans as he pulls himself out of the chair. “I feel like shit – why is that bitch trying to knock down my door?”  
  
“You seriously don't remember?” Stan asks. Kyle is slumped against Stan's back, no longer laughing about this scenario, looking like he's going to be sick.  
  
“Remember what?” Cartman asks as he heads toward the door. “Hold your fucking horses, bitch!” he shouts. “I'm coming!”  
  
“Uh oh,” Butters whispers. Kenny cringes when Cartman throws open the door. Wendy is standing there, fuming, her hands in fists at her sides.   
  
“God, woman, why all the sand in your vagina?” Cartman says, scratching his stomach, oblivious. Wendy grits her teeth and slaps him.  
  
“You are disgusting!” she says. “Don't you ever text me like that again!”  
  
“Like what?” Cartman asks, holding his cheek. He actually looks hurt, not even defensive yet as he gapes at Wendy.  
  
“You know what I'm talking about!” Wendy says, jabbing her finger at him. “Quit acting like a child! If you want to ask me out, do it like a normal fucking human being!”  
  
“Wha – huh?” Cartman says, still touching the place where she slapped him.  
  
“And we are only going to be fuck buddies!” Wendy says. “I am not having your fucking ch –”  
  
She stops there, suddenly realizing that Cartman is not alone. Her eyes shoot open when she sees Stan and Kyle on the couch together, Kyle watching this scene play out with his chin on Stan's shoulder.  
  
“F-fuck buddies?” Cartman says, sounding frightened.  
  
“Ugh, I should have known it was just some stupid prank!” Wendy says, glaring at Stan. “Fuck you guys – just – fuck you!”  
  
Wendy storms away then, and Cartman is left staring, his mouth hanging open as he watches her go.   
  
“W-wait!” he shouts, shaking himself out of it. He runs out into the snow, barefoot, chasing her down the street. “It wasn't a prank! It wasn't a prank! Wendy, wait! Fuck buddies, yes, okay – fuck buddies, Wendy! Let's do it!”  
  
“I'm gonna throw up,” Kyle moans, catapulting toward the bathroom. Stan follows, and Kenny doesn't need to peer around the half-closed door to know that Stan will rub Kyle's back while he gets sick, wipe his mouth with a cool washcloth when he's done, and take care of him, today and always. Kenny looks down at Butters and grins. Butters has two fingers in his mouth, his eyes still on the open doorway.  
  
“Well, geez,” Butters says. “That was an eventful evening.” He looks up at Kenny and gives him a timid smile.  
  
“Want go come over to my house?” Kenny asks. He leans in closer, to whisper in Butters' ear. “I've got my Mysterion costume there.”  
  
Butters' grin is the closest thing to wicked that has ever graced his face. He kneels up, grabs Kenny's ears, and gives him a morning-breath laced, open-mouthed kiss that would have completely knocked Kenny on his ass if he wasn't on it already.  
  
“Fuck yes,” Butters says softly. Kenny laughs and kisses him again, his hands sneaking down to find Butters' ass. The dress has ridden up and Kenny can feel the underwear Butters is wearing: lace. Nice.  
  
They're going to have get drunk together more often.


End file.
